


Indirect Correlation

by Hella_Queer



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Bill Denbrough Loves Mike Hanlon, Combining movie and book elements, Everyone lives but this ain’t about them, First Kiss, Forehead Touching, Getting Together, Indirect Kisses, M/M, Mike Hanlon Loves Bill Denbrough, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27953921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hella_Queer/pseuds/Hella_Queer
Summary: The many times Mike wanted to kiss Bill, everything in between, and a little bit after.
Relationships: Mike Hanlon/Bill Denbrough
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Indirect Correlation

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe this was meant to be a simple 5+1 kind of thing? Wild.

“Hey Bill, can I borrow your chapstick?”

Mike pats himself on the back for his super casual delivery. He’s been thinking of how to phrase it all afternoon, not wanting to ask at the wrong time, like in front of a corner store where it would be reasonable for him to go in and buy his own. He did his best not to worry his lips too much, either, lest they end up bloody and unappealing, not the kind of lips you’d want to share things with.

As Bill fishes in his pocket, crumpled up sticky notes falling out with his keys, Eddie scrunches his nose in distaste. “I really don’t think you should share lip products,” he says, waving a French fry for emphasis. “The dead skin cells, the bacteria from open cuts. Cold sores!”

Bill rolls his eyes, putting his phone on the table as he searches yet another pocket. Mike knows where the chapstick is but watching Bill figure out his new cargo shorts was worth the wait. “You and Richie were swapping spit forty-five minutes ago.”

“I know where his mouth has been!”

Mike hums into his empty mug of coffee. “I’m sure I could guess where it's been, too.”

They're in some hole-in-the-wall diner in Chicago that Bev insisted they visit, where the booths are small and the milkshakes are illegally good. With their memories restored and a second win against cosmic evil under their belts, The Losers Club was back to proper working order. Which in hindsight just meant seven codependent adults calling each other at all hours of the day, and dumping money on plane tickets for weekend trips. After years of solitude the constant attention made Mike a little nervous, but also filled him with excitement. Now instead of imagining what one of his friends would say in some hypothetical scenario, he could just ask. 

Bill lets out a triumphant cry as he finds the chapstick at long last just as Richie returns from the bathroom. He hands it over to Mike, who damn near drops it when their fingers touch. He rolls the small tube between his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the label. Bill likes gas station chapstick, the kind Bev used to lift from the drug store when they were kids. He sends pictures to the group chat whenever he gets a new pack, always a fun array of flavors. The first that Mike can remember is fruit, and how fast he worked through the strawberry. This one is pink lemonade and the scent has been driving him crazy all day. Bill always applied more than he needed, saying he liked the way it felt. 

(Mike liked the way it looked. Maybe a little too much.)

“You can just buy your own chapsticks, you know,” Eddie says, voicing his earlier fear. He still won’t let it go, even with Richie drawing him into a game of tic tac toe on the many napkins the waitress left on the table. “And over-moisturizing actually dries your lips out faster. That’s how they make money.”

Mike tempers his glare, barely. He waits for Bill to agree, for him to call Mike out about this being his third time asking to borrow an eighty cent tube of goo. He doesn’t. Instead, Richie pokes Eddie between his eyebrows, smoothing out the persistent wrinkle there until Eddie playfully slaps him away. “How do you know all this stuff anyway? Who have you been kissing lately and why wasn’t I there for it?”

And just like that Mike and Bill are invisible, as important as their empty plates and half full glasses. Mike is grateful, shooting a look at Bill to see him typing away on his phone. He uncaps the tube and hesitates, just a moment, before gliding the sticky, waxy substance over his bottom lip. It feels warm, and while he knows it’s been in Bill’s pocket all day he can’t stop himself from picturing Bill putting it on right before him. Mike tries not to lay it on so thick, determined to show an ounce of self-restraint. He feels like the biggest creeper on the planet for the way his heart stutters in his chest. The tube is almost empty, meaning Bill has used this one a lot, just like the strawberry. 

“I have a bad habit of licking it off,” Bill laughs, startling Mike so hard he hits his knee on the underside of the table. He looks across the table and finds Bill _watching him_ from over his glass. Mike’s tongue darts out automatically to wet his lips, bringing back the faint artificial taste of something vaguely resembling lemon. Bill watches this, too. 

Mike laughs a little too late. “Maybe if you didn’t pick the ones that tasted like candy they would last a little longer.” 

“I’ve been denied enough pleasures already, don’t you think?”

_This is a trap._

Mike can’t seem to tune in for the rest of lunch, the words _pleasure_ and _denial_ and _Bill_ swirling around his head. He notices when Richie leans across the table to plant a wet kiss on Eddie’s cheek, and the way Eddie scowls in an effort to keep himself from smiling. He notices the way they touch so casually, a world’s difference from what they were like immediately after fighting IT, when Eddie was in the hospital and Richie stayed by his side but refused to meet his eye. They look cute, like the kids that lived at the forefront of Mike’s mind for so many years.

He also notices the way Bill’s lips are far shiner than they were a few minutes ago when they pay the check.

*******

Mike almost kissed Bill at the Jade of Orient.

It wasn’t on his agenda for the night, kissing confused married men in front of God, the hostess and the fish, but damn if he wasn’t tempted. Filled with relief, happiness, longing and trust and gratitude, Mike had covered Bill like a weighted blanket, as if his bulk could keep him from disappearing again. His heart had nearly exploded in celebration, in _validation_ , because of course Big Bill would come back, of course he would be the first to return. 

Which opened up an entirely different can of worms when Mike’s dormant crush smacked him in the face in the form of bright blue eyes, fluffy hair that had faded from the vibrant red and into a gentle brown, with even softer hints of gray. It pulled the rug out from under him with Bill’s laugh, his smile, the way it felt like no time had passed as they ate and talked and talked and talked. Mike had gotten comfortable just as the fortune cookies attacked, and logically that should’ve been where his personal feelings took a backseat. Unfortunately being logical was Stan’s job.

Mike spent that entire ordeal bouncing back and forth between terror, guilt and yearning, a combination that he now knew he wasn’t alone in feeling, but the differences between him and the others was comical. At the end of it all Mike was left with the impression of Bill’s hands cradling his face, savoring the heat, the proximity, their bond. In the end Bill went home to his wife and Mike told himself he was fine with that. Because when he called, Bill answered, remembered, started calling him first. In the end Mike knew that he could live like this.

And then Bill was separated. And then he was single. And then Mike was fucked.

*******

“Is this a date?” Mike asks out loud in the crowded car, distracted by the stupid word cookie game Ben had tricked him into playing. He can feel the air leave his lungs at the following silence, made worse by Richie’s cackling in the backseat.

Ben has a minivan, because subverting expectations was a theme amongst them now. Sports cars were flashy and fast and a solid source of retail therapy, but it wasn’t practical for carting his friends around. Mike has been not so subtly trying to buy it off of him, because why go to a dealership when you knew how to stack favors. Ben has yet to relent but as a consolation prize he lets Mike ride shotgun more often than not, which Mike is extremely grateful for now.

“Who exactly are you asking, bud?” Bev asks from behind the driver’s seat, not bothering to hide her laughter. Having her and Richie in the same space was a nightmare. How Eddie survives Bev’s solo visits he has no idea.

“It was a joke.”

“It most certainly was not!.”

“You wouldn’t know a good joke if it bit you on the ass, Tozier.”

“Which is how I know you weren’t joking! Do you need some reassurance champ? Spare change so you can buy your gal a big soda at the drive-in?”

“I wasn’t asking _you_ , I wasn’t talking to any of you!”

“Yeah cause Bill isn’t he—OW!”

Mike keeps his eyes straight ahead, letting his imagination fill in Richie’s punishment. Ben pats his knee sympathetically. He sends a quiet word of thanks to Stan, who convinced Bill to ride with him and Patty, claiming he had questions about Bill’s latest unchecked trauma creature of the month. Bill had resisted a little, bumping his shoulder against Mike like a balloon tied to his wrist, trying to send him secret signals with his eyes. Mike still feels stiff from holding still for so long. He wanted to wrap an arm around Bill’s waist and pull him close, wanted them all to cram into the Sedanley so that Bill had to sit in his lap 

Fine. Okay. Maybe he wasn’t very good at being subtle. 

This gathering of the Losers had been Patty’s idea, and Mike was content to play with puzzles and watch HGTV and Family Feud, shouting over the others whenever his suggestion was at the top of the board. He and Stan had formed a team during the second episode of Jeopardy and everyone absolutely hated them. Things were going well! He was keeping it together. He was existing alongside Bill and hadn’t combusted. Everything was fine. Until someone mentioned the movies. Mike, panic growing in his chest, had angled for a Super Fun Sleepover kind of deal, with a pillow fort and pajamas and keeping the lights on. He was out voted, tickets were bought, and his fate for the next three hours was sealed.

Mike loved going to the theater. It was his main source of entertainment during his decades alone, reminding him of better times, but also allowing him to let go and get absorbed in someone else’s story for a while. Books did that too, but reading Bill Denbrough’s mystery horror always came with a price, namely him recognizing the things that Bill, and his characters, couldn’t put a name to. Movies were safer, less emotionally taxing, and if he bought tickets to boring films just to nap in a space filled with people, that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own. 

When the five of them arrive, Stan, Patty and Bill are waiting out front, a late spring breeze ruffling their hair. Bill heads straight for him, lips drawn down in a frown.

Oh. Oh no. He’s _pouting_. Bill is looking up at him and pouting with the saddest slant to his eyebrows, going so far as to tug on his jacket sleeve as if he needs to get his attention, as if Mike didn’t synch up to him like a Bluetooth headset the second they made eye contact. Bill could be hidden in a crowd _Where’s Waldo_ style and Mike is certain he could find him under five minutes. 

“Will you _please_ tell Patty to stop making fun of me for my candy choices?” The others laugh, carrying on just a few feet away, but Mike is currently experiencing extreme tunnel vision. He sees Bill’s pretty eyes and the scruff of his beard and the pink of his pouting lips and he very nearly kisses him. He draws Bill close with a hand cupping his elbow, gravity sending him down, down, until their foreheads are touching. 

It’s at this point that Mike stops breathing, mind turning to static. Bill blinks back at him, eyes wide and full of curiosity, not the confusion or disgust Mike had feared. Sure, Bill had been the one to put them in this position the first time, but that was a spur of the moment celebration, reaching out for the nearest body in relief and desperation. That was underground in the dark, in the shadows of their nightmares. This, now, is out in the open underneath the afternoon sun. 

Bill pulls back a bit, just to lean in again and tap his forehead oh-so-gently to Mike’s, a small but pleased smile lighting up his face, soft like a tea light. He nudges Mike like a cat, and what is Mike to do but nudge him back, another soft tap, lingering a little bit longer, before standing upright once more. His heart is fucking _flying_ now, leaving him breathless and jittery. 

“We are equal opportunity candy consumers, Mrs. Uris. Surely you can open your heart to new ideas.” He squeezes Bill’s elbow before letting go. Bill stays right where he is, though he does look over his shoulder to stick his tongue out at Patty, who sticks hers out right back. The others, Mike notes in a daze, are all ushering Richie inside, hands covering his mouth and keeping his hands out of view. 

“He mixes skittles with buttered popcorn,” Patty tells him with a shrug, looping her arm through Stan’s. “Some crimes can’t be forgiven.” Stan snorts, kissing her cheek with an ease that Mike envies something fierce. Bill huffs, crossing his arms as he follows after them. Mike trails not far behind, clenching his fingers Mr. Darcy style. 

He Needs To Get A Grip!

It seems that his punishment for defending Bill’s candy crimes is to share his popcorn bucket. Mike, high off of physical contact, grabs two boxes of skittles, flipping Richie off when he catches the hand gestures Eddie was trying to hide. Bill is back to rocking into him, recoiling dramatically when Mike counters him. 

“You’ll send me to the ground if you’re not careful,” Bill warns, talking around a smile. Mike wishes he had Bill’s artistic skill so he could capture that smile on every surface available to him. “I don’t bounce back like I used to. I crouched down to pick up a pen the other day and ended up sitting on the floor.”

Mike remembers the way Bill’s knees had popped, shocking a loud laugh out of him. He remembers the way Bev and Eddie slugged on the floor after him, legs thrown over his lap, arms around his shoulders. Mike had watched from his spot on the couch in between Ben and Stan, trying his hardest not to join them.

“I’ll be careful with you.”

The words come out so much softer than he intended. The Bill of his memories, of his childhood, and the man who stood beside him now, were one in the same. Strong, determined, proud, capable of so much love it was a wonder it didn’t weigh him down. But they also deserved so much more than they allowed themselves to have. 

Bill’s sharp inhale is his only response, and he grows still, face turned away from Mike’s heavy gaze. When they move up in line, as they wait for their popcorn and cinnamon pretzel and large coke, Bill rocks into him again, but this time he stays, no longer swaying in the breeze. Mike wants to put his arm around him, but settles for pushing back, meeting Bill in the middle. 

This theater doesn’t have assigned seating, so it's a search to find eight chairs all together. Mike is preoccupied with the popcorn and the candy and the one large coke that he insisted on carrying by himself, like he needs to show off, so he almost misses Eddie trying to flag Bill down to sit in the middle of the aisle.

It certainly brings back memories. If Eddie wasn’t distracted by Richie’s attention grabbing antics, he was glued to Bill’s side, happily following at his side or leading the way while looking over his shoulder, always making sure Bill was still behind him. As a bystander it might’ve been cute, but Mike is feeling just a touch territorial. Which is stupid stupid stupid because Bill isn’t a toy and Mike has no claim over him and Eddie almost _died_ so he should be able to sit next to his best friend in a small movie theater in Atlanta.

“Is it alright if I take the end?” He asks just as he’s sitting down. He thinks he hears Ben say something, or maybe Richie, but he tunes everyone else out when Bill sits down in the seat beside him, shrugging off his jean jacket and laying it across his lap like a blanket. 

“May I ?” He asks, shaking his box of skittles. Mike hides his brief grimace of pain as sweet and chewy mixes with hot and buttery. Bill eats a handful with satisfaction, oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil. As he turns away to talk to Patty beside him, Mike cautiously pops a few fluffy kernels in his mouth, along with three skittles fused together. It… sure does taste like candy and popcorn, but not in a way that seems like a deal breaker.

 _A deal breaker for what?_ Mike thinks as the lights begin to dim. _Would I stop having feelings for him if he ate pickles with peanut butter?_

“Have you ever tried sour cream and onion chips with vanilla ice cream?” Mike murmurs, sinking down in his seat so he can whisper more effectively. Bill still has his phone out, and looking down the row of their friends he sees several screens lighting up the room. Mike rolls his eyes, checking to make sure his own phone is in his pocket. Whatever they were talking about, and he had to assume they were all talking to each other because what other friends did they even have, it was really tickling Bev and Richie specifically.

Bill whips his head up at the sound of his voice. “Yes!” He silences his phone and shoves it in his pocket, eyes bright in the darkness. “The contrast between flavors and textures feels like unlocking some kind of secret.”

Mike can feel his smile turning stupidly fond. “Once you’ve had corn and macaroni on the same spoonful, life really opens its doors to you.”

Bill takes another handful of his concoction, clearly validated by Mike’s words. “Some things just work better together, you know?” He coughs a little, prompting a laugh from Richie. Mike flips him off with one hand and grabs the drink with the other, passing it off to Bill. Or that was his intention. Bill leans forward and uses his tongue to bring the straw into his mouth, drinking grateful mouthfuls, eyes closing as he concentrates on not coughing again. 

Meanwhile Mike is left to hold the cup, dumbfounded and speechless. Bill smacks his lips when he’s finished, and because subtlety has been silenced along with his phone, Mike drinks right after him. Heat coats his neck in a prelude to the sweat that breaks out over his forehead. Bill’s lips, his _tongue_ , were just wrapped around this straw. His pulse jumps and he blames the caffeine in the pop, blames the lights going out completely as the movie starts. 

He doesn’t realize he’s just holding the damn straw in his mouth until a very faint and Bev sounding “Thirsty much?” knocks him out of his head and back into the theater. Back beside Bill who is innocently offering him the popcorn bucket. He eats a fistful and lets the flavors curl his tongue, candy and corn getting stuck in his back teeth. 

Bill grins like they’re sharing a secret, and suddenly things taste so much better. 

About thirty minutes into the film Mike realizes he’s agreed to a three hour horror movie. A cheesy, fake gore riddled masterpiece complete with jump scares and overdone tropes, but still something that makes him wince every now and again. He looks away during the intense scenes, scanning the people around them, inspecting their dwindling snacks and the way their shared straw glimmers in the light of the screen. Bill has taken to passing him the cup every time he takes a sip, as if making sure Mike gets his equal share. He seems oblivious to the way he plays with the straw, gently bending the very tip with his teeth, licking up the side to catch stray drops of pop. Mike wishes his chest didn’t tighten every time his mouth followed the same path, wishes his eyes didn’t flutter shut at the thought of swapping spit in such a roundabout way. Normal lovestruck horny idiots make out in the back row. Mike was clearly of a different breed of desperate.

Bill drifts closer as the movie progresses and the survivors trickle down into single digits. There’s a water scene that has him tensing up, locking his jaw so he doesn’t scream. Mike can see him losing focus, retreating into his head, the scene playing out in front of him replaced with his own cruel imagination. 

Mike acts on impulse, grabbing the hand that rests limpily on the armrest and giving it a firm squeeze, and then another. Another. Rhythmic like his heartbeat, like his breathing. Bill reacts abruptly, squeezing Mike’s fingers hard enough to hurt them both. Mike rubs his thumb along his pinky for the rest of the film, not flinching whenever Bill gets rigid and has to crush his fingers. 

Here in the dark, his hand overtop Bill’s, Mike feels like he’s accomplished something. He can’t do away with Bill’s fear or stop his mind from wandering down darkened hallways. But he can ground him, pull him to the surface, help him tread water until they reach the shore. 

“I think I hate this,” Mike murmurs, lips barely touching Bill’s hair. Bill hums, still a little fog brained. “Wanna slip out to the arcade. Lose a few rounds of air hockey.”

 _That_ gets his attention. Bill peers up at him, a spark returning to his tired eyes. “Loser buys another pack of skittles.”

Mike doesn’t mention how he’s already bought two, or that he really isn’t a fan of them as a whole, or that he’d rather buy Bill dinner. He simply stands, glad for the aisle seat, and makes his way out of the theater. Bill bumps into him on the very last step, grabbing the back of his shirt so he doesn’t fall. Mike, choking on his laughter, reaches back for him and finds his damp, sticky hand. 

They hold on for much longer than they should.

*******

The first thing Mike splurged on after he left Derry was a really good laptop. He needed something made for travel, something he could grab as quickly as a set of keys, or stuff in a backpack. He needed swift internet access, something that would last, but most of all something that could make Skype look good. No such computer existed unfortunately, so he settled for what he could afford without leaving him stranded in the Best Buy parking lot.

Mike gets comfortable on the couch, listening to Patty moving about in the kitchen behind him, while Bev and Eddie bicker about shirts on the screen in front of him. Upstairs, Stan is washing up for dinner, after getting covered in flour and breadcrumbs. 

Mike spent most of his time at the Uris household when he wasn’t roaming the coast. On cloudy days he catches Patty staring at Stan with haunted eyes, caught in an awful memory that she can’t shake. Then she’ll look to Mike and her shoulders relax, the worry lines leaving her forehead. With Mike around Stan isn’t alone with his thoughts. With Mike around they have two sets of eyes to keep watch. Mike doesn’t mind being a lighthouse when he can pick which boat to shine his light on.

“You’ve got a big decision to make soon, Benny Boy,” Richie is saying somewhere offscreen. Eddie, still in frame but typing something on a different monitor, raises his eyebrows in silent inquiry. Mike laughs a silent laugh to himself. It was reassuring to see those two together, to see them bringing out the best in each other. 

Nobody made a big deal about Richie moving in with Eddie while he was being divorced, except for Bill who whined about being left alone on the west coast. Nobody batted an eye when they announced, quietly for them, that they were an item. Bill played the surprised best friend for Eddie, eyes wide and tone incredulous. He was a better writer than actor but Mike could tell that Eddie appreciated the dramatics. He appreciated the giving a shit. 

“And what would that be?” Ben asks from all the way in Nebraska. He’s become the hardest Loser to keep tabs on, if only because he’s been traveling all over the place trying to mend the rifts in his business contracts. Disappearing without a trace for three weeks sounds like a fun escape until you remember things like bills and insurance exist. He looks tired, but the regular kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can fix. 

Richie comes bouncing into frame holding a bowl of fruit. He boops Eddie on the nose with a grape before popping it into his mouth and plopping down in his previously abandoned chair. He does that sometimes, getting up in the middle of a conversation to go do something else. He says walking through door frames helps reset his brain, and sitting still for too long turns his thoughts into banana bread. Eddie, to Mike’s knowledge, has never complained. 

“Are you signing up for birthday spanks or birthday kisses?”

“....is there a third option?” Ben asks, blinking twice. “Wait, who is spanking me?”

Richie cheers. “That’s a spanking lady and gents!”

“I didn’t agree to anything! I’m asking for qualifiers!”

The familiar— and how wonderful is it that something has occurred enough times for it to be familiar— back and forth is a soothing white noise for Mike. Stan comes downstairs in a purple sweater, gently towel drying his hair. He looks over Mike’s shoulder to wave at everyone before going into the kitchen with Patty. Their quiet conversations are soothing in another way; the way a busy library sounds in the afternoon. Mike finds himself on the edges of both, chaos and calm boxing him in on both sides. He likes existing in this space. He’s so grateful he’s here, listening to Stan cough on a dinner roll while states away Richie and Bev discuss the logistics of hand shaped paddles.

“What’s the conversion rate from tongue kiss to an open palm on an uncovered ass?”

“I hate everything about that sentence, Richie, oh my god.” Eddie gets out his phone, presumably playing along, and starts rattling off arbitrary numbers. Mike gets up to refill his water glass and sneak a dinner roll, scooping out a spoonful of mashed potatoes on his way around the island. 

“Feel free to make a plate, dear,” Patty tells him kindly. “I know you missed breakfast.”

Mike smiles, equal parts bashful and fond. “I will in a bit. I can’t leave those four unsupervised for too long.”

Stan hums around his peas. “What is Bill good for these days if he can’t hold down the fort for twenty minutes?” He and Patty make eye contact just then, smiling in a way that makes Mike feel like he walked in on them kissing. He quickly retreats back to the couch, seeing his phone light up on the table next to his computer. He picks it up, expecting an email or a Twitter notification. It turns out to be neither.

**Bill:** They’re bringing in foreign currency. Please distract them. I picked writing as my career because I can’t do math 

**Mike:** Idk I think you could run with this. Put a price on actions, pay for celebrations or affection. Sounds like the kind of white teen protagonist evil utopia thing you’d like

Bill laughs, a sharp bark that comes out of nowhere and stops everyone in their tracks and turns Mike’s blood to lava. Bill plays it off relatively well but Mike doesn’t even hear what he says, too busy playing back that laugh, increasing the volume, remixing and warping like a DJ at a middle school dance.

**Bill:** I really hate how I’m considering this now. I’ve been getting stuck on every new project I’ve attempted in the past month 

**Mike:** That’s because you lack discipline. When you make your own hours you can afford to lean into your excuses

 **Bill:** If I wanted to be bullied I would’ve texted Bev. Or Patty for that matter

 **Mike:** You can say that I’m your favorite. I promise not to tell Eddie

There’s something special about texting while everyone else carries on, occasionally adding on in case anyone is watching him when he’s not looking. And if he’s being honest he really isn’t looking, not unless he’s watching Bill to gauge his reaction. He’s holding in his laughter now but he doesn’t do anything to smother his smiles, his eyerolls, the way he rubs the bridge of his nose as he thinks of a good comeback. When he catches Mike watching he sticks his tongue out at him, making a show of putting his phone down. 

“Richie picked spanks and had to tap out after eight so clearly kss is the better option.” Eddie is saying, trying to elbow Richie out of frame.

“I _had_ to tap out cause you’re heavy handed as fuck! I thought my ass was gonna cave in!”

Ben still seems confused but he’s always been a good sport. “Can I go half and half? Does it have to be all or nothing?” He plays with the ring on his middle finger, a thoughtful action Mike was fond of, because Stan did the same with his wedding ring. “How can you divide forty-one into six. Are we including Patty in this?’

Bev takes out her phone, lips pursed. “That’s a very good question Ben, let me ask her.”

Mike watches in real time as Patty’s phone rings. She glances at it, then into the living room at Mike, who is too busy laughing into his hands to help her out. “Hi, Bev honey, is everything alright?” She furrows her brows, turning away from her dinner to peer at the laptop. Mike is no longer blocking her view because he’s tipped over on the couch being stupid into a decorative throw pillow. Laughter echoes around him; somebody snorts and that makes it even worse. He feels emboldened by the atmosphere, the sheer absurdity that is all of them trying to have a conversation, that he acts without thinking. 

**Mike:** What would you pick? Kisses or spanks?

And if that doesn’t sober him up like a bucket of ice water. 

He stares at his own text and tries to keep the panic out of his eyes. It’s a fitting question, on topic and joking and not at all serious because Richie said it first which means nobody has to take it seriously. He mentally prepares his own response, something funny with a punchline that will lead them into a new topic of conversation. He doesn’t let himself think about kissing Bill forty-one times. But his birthday already passed so he would have to wait until next year. Forty-two. Kissing Bill Denbrough forty-two times in one day. If they divided them evenly that would be seven kisses per person, unless Patty wanted to skip out and give her share to someone else. Who would she give them to? Stan? Or maybe Richie. One for all the Losers and then an extra leftover. But that’s only if Bill wanted to split them up. Who would he pick as his birthday kiss distributor and wow Mike really needs to shut down this line of thinking.

**Bill:** That depends  
**Bill:** Who’s doing it?

 **Mike:** Does your answer change based on service provider?

 **Bill:** Is that what we’re calling it?

 **Mike:** Let’s say Richie

 **Bill:** Mmmm kiss. I don’t trust his wacky wavy inflatable tube man arms

“Babylove you don't have to answer any of this. I won’t be upset if you block all of their numbers.”

“It’s fine, dove, it’s for Ben. Bev honey, are his pants on or off? What is his comfort level? I can’t anticipate my involvement unless I know all the variables.”

Mike looks up and sees that Eddie is now on the phone. Then he looks over his shoulder to see _Stan_ is now also on the phone. He gives them ten minutes before Richie calls Ben, because he hates being left out of a bit.

**Mike:** What about Stan?

 **Bill:** If I tried to kiss Stan I think Patty would slap me anyway.  
**Bill:** So I guess spank by default 

**Mike:** Eddie?

 **Bill:** If Richie can be trusted he hits pretty hard

 **Mike:** Is that a good or bad thing for you?

 **Bill:** I don’t think I share his pain kink  
**Bill:** But you can never know for sure so  
**Bill:** Spank 

Mike very deliberately did not open this can of worms during his earlier mental musings and he clamps down on it now. The fact that Bill ended up shorter than all of them, their pocket sized leader. Mike could probably pick him up if he tried. He worked out during the twenty-seven years, kept his body healthy even as his mind started to fray at the edges. He knows the proper lifting technique. If he wanted to throw his back out he could fling Bill over his shoulder and carry him off like some kind of possessive caveman. He looks down at his palm, flexing his fingers. He knows his hand is bigger than Bill’s and Wow he Really needs to stop thinking in general.

**Mike:** Do I even need to ask about Bev?

 **Bill:** So funny Mikey you should be the comedian 

**Mike:** You say that, but when I call at odd hours to rehearse my tight five you’ll have wished I stayed a librarian 

**Bill:** I’ll be in the front row at every show. I’ll heckle you and everything 

**Mike:** Would you really? I don’t think you have the confidence to call me out in public

 **Bill:** Why is talking to you like searching through the reviews on Goodreads?

The outside world has moved on to actual birthday plans. Ben tosses out a water park, then immediately back pedals at the startled look in Bill’s eyes. It occurs to Mike that certain things might be forever ruined for them, things that normal people, normal children got to enjoy growing up. Chinese food, carnivals, water parks, tunnels to explore and the very concept of the dark. Mike can’t sleep in open spaces, needs a trusted source of sound to get him to relax once the sun goes down. He’ll pull up one of Richie’s specials if he’s working and wants background noise, but at night he’ll listen to old voicemails, or even call one of the Losers just to hear them in real time. If his call goes unanswered they make sure to call him back, to reach out. He appreciates it, the giving a shit. 

**Mike:** I think Ben is a good kisser. He’s got that air about him

 **Bill:** He’s got big hands too

 **Mike:** Thought you said you didn’t have a pan kink?

 **Bill:** Ben has that “care for you afterwards” air about him 

There’s only one person left to ask about. Mike’s thumb hover over the keyboard, not wanting Bill to see him typing until he knows exactly what to say. Everything so far has been hypothetical, fun musings between friends. Mike doesn’t know if he can ask without getting his hopes up, without reading into whatever Bill says. He can’t ask _do you want my hands on you or my mouth?_ and not have it mean anything. This isn’t Bill’s fault but Mike is afraid he won’t be able to school his expression in time. He glances up at Bill’s window and sees him staring down at his phone as if waiting for a reply, rolling his lip between his teeth. 

Mike wants to bruise them. Just a little. Just enough that when Bill speaks he absently touches his bottom lip and gets distracted by the heat, the memory of Mike biting down and pulling. 

_”I’ll be careful with you.”_

He wonders how he can keep his promise when all he wants to do is mess him up.

“What do you think, Mike?” Ben asks, looking uncertain. Mike feels incredibly guilty for a number of reasons and there’s no way he’s upsetting this man so close to his birthday.

“I’m down for whatever you wanna do, man. It’s your special day.” He smiles, hoping to god this is the proper response. He tucks his phone into his pocket and gives the group his full attention. 

Talking to Bill was dangerous because he often got lost in his words, in the world he created around them. On his most recent drive, just cruising around downtown Atlanta, Bill called him with utter delight coating every breath. He spun a tail of pirates and found family and ancient curses so compelling and heavy that Mike had to pull over. He had questions and Bill had answers and they came up with an entire plot right then and there. Mike threatened him bodily harm if Bill didn’t write it down, because he had the bad habit of not saving his ideas, of not taking notes, and if he was going to rope Mike into this he better keep track of his shit or pay Mike to do it for him.

“Do you want to write a book with me?” Bill had asked on the tail end of what could be a wonderful corruption arc. He was breathless and awestruck and hopeful and Mike opened his mouth to say _I love you_ and that’s when his phone died. So maybe there was some cosmic entity watching over him after all, keeping him from making stupid decisions under the bright light of Bill Denbrough’s undivided attention. 

Mike settles into the couch, resigned to his missed opportunity, and makes a mental note to ask Stan what the hell he just agreed to.

*******

It was no secret that out of the seven, Mike was not the most financially healthy. He made an honest living as a librarian, could afford to put gas in his truck and sample the best pancakes roadside diners had to offer, but he wouldn’t call his bank account comfortable. He had reservations in the beginning when everyone offered to buy him things; Eddie and his hypotheticals almost landed him a new car which sent Mike into a week of the silent treatment. Lately he’s been a bit more lenient, if only because what used to feel like a charity case— he knows the others don’t see it that way but still— and has turned into a game of Pick Me.

Mike remembers the last time he paid for his own motel room. It was early November and he was falling asleep at the wheel, head jerking and bobbing as he fought not to crash or run himself off the road. With nowhere to be and nothing to do time had a habit of getting away from him. His sleep schedule was completely ruined, or just a different kind of ruined compared to what it had been before, and he was probably taking years off his life due to exhaustion anyway. He pulled into the next motel he saw, ended up paying way too much for a room, too out of it to realize the guy behind the counter was pulling one over on him, and slept well into the afternoon the following day.

What he thought would be a funny story to tell the others turned into a light scolding turned into a plea to pay for his next hotel room. And when he tried to explain that No, he didn't stay in hotels because they were needlessly expensive and he usually drove well into the night and not always in a city, an entirely new argument spawned. It’s been a long time since someone was around to give him shit about his bad habits. He wasn’t used to it, let alone being outnumbered.

In the end he did like taking hot showers, and walking into a shiny lobby, dirty boots and dusty jacket, giving his name and having a room ready for him, made him feel a bit like a celebrity, with a small but very dedicated audience. 

And maybe, just maybe, he liked when a certain Loser fought for the right to spend money on him. 

**Stan:** I feel as though I should be offended that none of you are making a big fuss about my birthday 

**Ben:** You told us On My birthday that if we tried to do anything crazy you wouldn’t talk to us for six months

 **Mike:** Feel free to direct your attention to Stan, I don’t mind!

 **Richie:** Too late to back out Mikey! We have your approval in writing

 **Bev:** I don’t know why we’re having this discussion I already said I was in charge of birthday preparations

 **Ben:** Mike went skydiving with me so I owe him this 

**Mike:** I had a good time! And it was for your birthday that does not count as a debt to be repaid

 **Ben:** How do you feel bungee jumping?

 **Mike:** Intrigued yet fearful 

**Eddie:** What if Richie and I go half and half on it? 

**Mike:** That… doesn’t sound horrible 

**Bev:** No combined assets! Fuck you Kaspbrak you’re not taking this from me!

 **Richie:** Calm down Ringwald it’s not our fault we ooze charm like a stab wound

 **Eddie:** Beep beep???

 **Stan:** Patty and I can take you to Orlando. You like Orlando 

**Mike:** I do like Orlando. But I also like surprises and I can’t think of a better surprise than Eddie and Rich trying to agree on a gift

 **Stan:** I can promise you much better surprises exist 

**Richie:** Name one!

 **Stan:** You having a sincere conversation that doesn’t end in a joke or self-deprecation 

**Richie:** You said a surprise not a miracle 

**Bill:** Hey Mike? Chicken, fish or beef?

 **Mike:** Ummm beef? 

**Bill:** Lime, strawberry or pineapple?

 **Richie:** What fucking secret code is this I hate you 

**Mike:** Strawberry 

**Bev:** Someone kick Bill from the chat please 

**Eddie:** Is this a grocery list? I have everyone’s allergies if you’ve forgotten 

**Bill:** Red, green or blue?

 **Mike:** Red 

**Mike:** I feel like I’m part of a spell

 **Richie:** Oh yeah, Big Bill over here is a real snake charmer

 **Mike:** Richie.

 **Richie:** Where’s the snake? That’s for you to decide 😎

 **Mike:** Beep Beep 

**Bill:** Alright.

 **Bill:** Unless anyone has a better offer I think I’ve won this

 **Bev:** What the hell are you talking about?

 **Richie:** You did a boring madlibs you haven’t won shit

 **Bill:** Oh one more thing

 **Bill:** Coach or first class?

 **Mike:** !!!!!!!

 **Mike:** You can’t dangle that in my face and not give me details!!

 **Bill:** It wouldn’t be a surprise if I did that now would it?

 **Richie:** Fuck you and your surprises! Don’t fall for his mystique, it's nothing but smoke and mirrors!

 **Mike:** How long do I have to pack for this surprise plane ride?

 **Bill:** A week give or take a few hours. Dress comfortably, it is summer after all

 **Stan:** Mike. Think about Orlando. 

**Bev:** Think about me! I haven’t seen you in so long! 

**Eddie:** You saw him last month! You jumped out of a plane together!

 **Bill:** Hey Mikey?

 **Richie:** Oh my GOD HES CHEATING STOP CHEATING

 **Mike:** Yeah Billy?

 **Bill:** What kind of wine do you like?

Mike muted the group chat after that and immediately called Bill. The man was playing to his weaknesses, his love of a good mystery and his buried desire to be doted on. Just a little, just enough to hop on a plane to a secret location and receive instructions via cryptic text messages. His gifts from the others were sent ahead of him, along with whatever else Bill had up his sleeve. 

He was excited, plain and simple. A very small part of him was a bit sad that he would be spending his birthday physically alone, but a much larger part of him was relieved. He was still getting used to having all eyes on him, and while he loved showering the others with texts and hugs and affectionate gestures, he still found himself standing at the edges of huddles and conversations, content to simply exist within their space. Maybe Bill understood that. He wasn’t a hermit like Ben but writing was a lonely process. Or maybe Bill just understood _him_ , understood when Mike needed to talk for hours and when a simple frog meme would get him through the day.

Or maybe he was just trying to kill him.

The Kingsley Hotel lobby in sunny Redry, Louisiana was something out of Mike’s wildest dreams. Warm dark wood with red and gold accents, a giant fish tank built into one wall, the only part of the Jade that hasn’t given him nightmares. High ceilings with exposed support beams, reminding him of Ben’s house, of a cabin hidden away in the woods. He peers through the crowd into what he thinks is the in-lobby Starbucks, and sways a little with delight. The normally green and white coffee shop looks like a tavern in a medieval themed bar. He wonders if he ordered a complicated drink if they would hand him a glass bottle filled with glowing liquid and a treasure map.

When he steps up to the front desk, rolling suitcase at his side, he feels a stab of longing. Bill would love a place like this, which is probably why he chose it for him. He knows Mike’s tastes, knows his favorite settings are cold, gray castles and wood that smells like fresh oak. Even the employee uniforms look like a mix between a Hallmark small town in Christmas and a pirate crew, shoulder pads and a jaunty scarf. The young woman behind the counter with the name tag Brianna smiles as she greets him. 

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” 

“Checking in for Hanlon,” he says, a bit distracted by her nose ring. He’s always wanted one, in the way he’s always wanted a tattoo or a motorcycle. “Unless he reserved it under Denbrough.”

_He can name drop on his birthday. As a gift to himself._

Turns out he needn’t have worried about the names. Hanlon comes up on the first pass. Brianna hands him a pamphlet that details all the amenities open to him under the _Priority Guest Package_ , words that make him hot under the collar. He nods and murmurs his thanks, stepping aside so the family behind him can get checked in.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Hanlon,” Brianna calls out to him. “And happy birthday!”

Mike ducks his head as he waits for the elevator, grateful when he’s the only one who gets on. He checks the time on his phone and wonders if Bill is awake yet. They were up late last night, him needling for hints about his surprise trip, Bill distracting him with riddles and more excerpts from his current work in progress. The others had tried their best to bully the information out of him, but Bill only laughed or gave them the same cryptic hints he had given Mike. 

The hallways are just as lovely as the lobby, the cabin theme going all the way up. Mike unlocks his door, eager to see what the dining hall looks like; he wonders if that’s one of the amenities his all access pass has granted him. Stepping into the room, getting his bag caught on the door, is more of what he’s used to when it comes to picking a place to rest his eyes for a few hours. And then he actually looks at the room.

“Oh, what the fuck.”

The giant four-poster bed takes up the center of the room, the red curtains pulled back to showcase the insane amount of pillows and the many, many gift bags covering the space. The bedside dresser, the writing desk in the corner, the fucking bathroom are also covered in gift bags, and a few boxes. Mike spins in a slow circle, trying to take it all in, eventually stumbling over to the couch which has the biggest wrapped gift leaning against the side. He rips the red and gold paper off, revealing the handle of a suitcase. Did the bastard give him a _suitcase for the gifts?!_

He’s afraid to look inside the mini fridge. Not because he’s worried about the bill, that part is taken care of, and it gives him chills whenever he thinks about the fact that this entire trip has cost him nothing. Even Ben refused his money when he asked if he could leave his truck at his place for a few days. Mike is afraid that if he explores his room any further without calling Bill he will do something stupid, as if agreeing to an all expenses paid trip to a mystery location wasn’t empty headed enough. He understands now why Bev jokes about him never being a final girl in a horror movie.

The time difference between Louisiana and California is only two hours, but as Mike paces in front of the large mounted television, he tells himself he would be metaphorically pounding on Bill’s door no matter how late or early it was. _And_ , a small voice whispers in the back of his mind, _you know he’ll pick up no matter what time it is._

Bill answers on the fourth ring, sounding pleased as punch but also like he hasn’t gotten out of bed yet. “Hey, Mikey. How was the flight?’ He asks as if he wasn’t on the phone with Mike right up until he boarded and as soon as he landed.

“I’m going to kill you.” Mike says as deadpan as possible.

“If that’s what the birthday boy wants.” He stretches; Mike can hear his joints pop, hears him groan. He holds the phone away from his ear in order to hold onto his already dwindling, mostly for show anger. “How do you like the room?”

Mike returns to the bathroom. The shower is simple, he might even call it small, but it has to be that way to make room for the jacuzzi tub. There’s a gift basket inside, presumably filled with lotion and soap and other bath goodies. Things Mike would never buy for himself. 

“I am going to kill you.” He sits on the edge of the tub and grabs the basket, opening it with slightly trembling hands as he tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder. “Tell me you did not send me thirty presents.”

“I did not send you thirty presents.”

Mike pauses, trying to do a mental recount. “Tell me you did not send me twenty seven presents.”

“Some of them are from the others, if that helps.”

In the basket is a small bottle of travel lotion, four bath bombs, an eye mask, and three packaged face masks. He would bet money there are cucumber slices in the fridge, or something equally ridiculous. The little card at the bottom is signed _Love, Bev,_ which puts him at ease and sets him on edge. There are twenty-six gifts out there and only a few of them are from the other Losers. The rest are Bill. The rest are _all Bill._

“Is it too much?” Bill doesn’t sound worried, but cautious. It’s a little late to cancel everything but Mike can hear the layer of pride under his voice.

“I cannot believe you.” Mike rubs the bridge of his nose, cheeks aching. It takes him a moment to realize he’s smiling. “What does priority guest mean?”

“You didn’t read the pamphlet?”

“Humor me.”

“It just means whatever you do will be paid for. Room service, coffee, any of the historical tours offered by the hotel. Just say who you are and they’ll put it on my tab.”

Mike hangs up.

He locates the presents from the Losers and opens them sitting on the floor, his back to the bed, a bag of pretzel M&Ms in his lap. He gets a pack of colorful socks, a mug that reveals its picture with hot water, a watch, two very comfy sweaters, a phone case that doubles as a wallet, a booklet of new teas to try, a giant bag of skittles, a pair of jeans he’s terrified to try on, and a scrapbook. He has to set the last one aside after reading Stan’s letter, lest he cover the old pictures and ticket stubs in his tears.

Afternoon turns to evening as he calls everyone to thank them, and subsequently throws Bill under the bus for showing off. He orders dinner with a fluttering in his chest. Richie, who was last on the list because he needed someone to help him stop crying after his call with Stan and Patty, is taking the priority guest thing very personally.

“He slapped my hand when I tried to grab a few of his fries and he’s paying for _everything?”_ He pictures Richie throwing his hands up in disbelief. “What’s next, lobster and champagne? A fondu pot?”

Mike freezes, his bite of steak paused halfway to his mouth. “Uh. No. But the room service guy did bring me chocolate covered strawberries and.a bucket of ice with a few tiny dessert wines in it.” Because he told Bill he liked feeling like a giant, and that he pretended the smaller bottles were potions. Because he can say that kind of stuff to Bill without worrying about being humiliated. 

Richie’s voice sounds far away as he shouts for Eddie. Mike picks up the room service menu and scans for desserts, wondering if he should get a slice of cake. The strawberry cheesecake appeals to him the most, but would that be a waste seeing as he already has strawberries? Maybe the Oreo or vanilla bean, something sweet but not too overloaded. 

_Is it too much?_

“How does it feel being Big Bill’s favorite?” Richie says once Eddie eventually stops responding. “What’d you do, huh? How can I get him to book a cruise for me?” 

Mike shrugs to himself, feeling far too smug. “I don’t know, try being his favorite.’

“And he admits it ladies and gents! Mike Hanlon has our fearless leader wrapped around his dick!”

Mike chokes on air. “B-beep beep! Shut up, Rich!”

“You aren’t even boning him and he’s bending over backwards and sending you on private planes and giving you the royal treatment! Eds ate my last snack cake without remorse and made me buy new ones, what the fuck is up with that?”

There’s rustling on his end, more muffled voices, a yelp, and then Eddie is in his ear. “Enjoy your trip, okay Mike? But maybe call Bill back so he stops texting me. Love you— RICHARD!”

Mike hangs up before he hears something he shouldn’t. He turns Eddie’s words over in his head as he cleans up, wheeling the cart out into the hall. Bill hasn’t tried to call him back, but Mike never thought to be anxious about that. He knew Bill was giving him space, letting him process and decompress. The thought of him texting Eddie to check in on him instead of poking at him was kind of cute. But he wasn’t upset, and he doesn’t want Bill to go to bed tonight thinking his grand gesture was a complete flop. Or worse, have him stay awake into the wee hours of the morning, working on a rough draft that he will inevitably delete when he deems it not good enough. 

He gathers up the unopened gifts, seventeen in total counting the suitcase, and puts them on the couch. There are twelve bags of varying sizes, three flat boxes like the kind his sweaters from Bev were in, and one longer, thinner, smaller box. Mike plans on recycling all of these bags and boxes and tissue paper. Patty and Bev like craft projects, maybe he can get a journal...hmm. 

On a whim he picks up a decent sized bag and peers inside. Yup. There it is. A hardcover journal perfect for glueing things in and painting on the cover. A fancy bullet journal to document all of his thoughts and travels, not the tattered, falling apart spirals he refuses to put in some kind of binder. 

“You must be some fancy pen, then,” Mike says, scooping up the smallest, longest, thinnest box. He unties the ribbon and slides off the lid.

It is not a pen.

Mike wonders if he’ll ever stop being surprised by Bill, if he’ll ever get used to the way he makes his heart stop on a dime before sending it off the runway like a fighter jet. The inside of the box is lined with soft black foam, and nestled between the grooves is the prettiest piece of jewelry Mike has ever seen. Upon first glance it looks like a bracelet; a thin chain with a flat, rectangular plate in the middle. He picks it up with shaking fingers, rubbing his thumb gently over the engraved letters.

_Michael._

His name has never looked like this before. Clean. Cared for. The metal warms under his touch, absorbing his heat, his shock. He looks blankly at the box, eyes searching for a store name, and spots lettering on the top inside of the lid. The words _ankle bracelet_ smack him upside the head and leave him dizzy, stumbling forward to sit on the edge of the bed. He re-examines the— the anklet, just how thin the chain is, how the band with his name on it is the centerpiece, no other gems or trinkets. He puts it on, cuffing his jeans so the rough material doesn’t rub against the metal, but then he thinks _fuck it,_ and takes off his pants all together. 

It feels not heavy, but present, like a weight that is here that was not here before. He can’t quite describe how it feels. He’s never been one to wear anything more than a watch, one of the three ties that he wore to the bank or when the Derry Library held special events. He speedwalks to the floor length mirror on the back of the closet door and stares at the man that won’t meet his eye. He looks normal from the waist up, still in his white t-shirt that he wore to the airport. From the waist down he sees navy briefs and long legs and soft metal curving around his left ankle, right on the bone.

He likes the color, he decides, turning his foot this way and that. Gold was what he usually thought of when it came to jewelry. His mother’s wedding ring had been gold, the earring his uncle wore, the many bangles Lorelei from the coffee shop back in Florida wore, which Mike knew her boss hated. Gold stood out, was a more noticeable status symbol, the highly sought after reward for every brave pirate seeking fortune. Silver was understated, hidden beneath the diamonds and rubies and emeralds. It reminds him of cold rain, of shooting stars, of the streaks in Bill’s hair.

Bill.

Silver.

_Oh._

Suddenly the anklet looks different, shinier, sturdier. He thinks about Bill at some jewelry store, peering down into display cases, getting that wrinkle of concentration between his brows. He might look at the gold chains, might have handled a leather one, something traditionally masculine. But his eyes would catch on the silvers, thinking of his old, trusty chariot, the chain that held together when they rode around in the park like two kids with nothing but time in front of them. Bill would look at these chains and the decision would be made before he ever checked the price. 

It feels odd, having such a delicate piece of jewelry on him. Mike was not delicate. He wasn’t allowed to be growing up, not in a place like Derry, and he found that he carried this armor like a well worn jacket. The Losers, Bill, were like thumb holes in the sleeves. Not a big rip, not enough to leave him completely exposed, but a place where he was a bit softer, freer. He no longer feels tense and on edge every hour of everyday, but he also hasn’t settled down completely. He’s somewhere in the middle, balanced between caution and recklessness. Bill makes him feel reckless, The anklet makes him feel bold. 

Mike runs a hot bath and tosses in one of his bath bombs, the pinky-orange flower that smells like peaches and sugar. He finds a bath tray under the sink and gets out the chocolate covered strawberries from the fridge, grabbing a bottle of wine on his way because if he’s going to lounge like a prince he wants to do it right. He finds a jazz playlist on Spotify and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth to get rid of his smile, stopping midway because he doesn’t need to hide, not here, not when everything around him was created to make him happy.

He takes the quickest shower known to man, scrubbing away the plane ride and the dried sweat from the summer heat. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he climbs into the tub and doesn’t recognize the man looking back, with his bright eyes and flushed cheeks. 

Sinking into the hot water feels like a dream. He sits through several songs, sipping his wine, savoring his fruit, eyes half shut, his thoughts a pleasant cruise instead of the frantic weave through traffic that he’s endured for nearly three decades. There is peace, and then there is checking the group chat submerged up to his neck in sweet smelling, probably healing water in a tub his entire body can fit in without trouble. 

He lifts his left foot out of the water just high enough to see the anklet, the little treasure that Bill put his name on. He had been joking when he said he was the favorite, but after today? And fuck, it doesn’t just end today, does it? He has an entire week if he wants, that’s how long Bill said his connections could extend the deal. He was lonely boarding the plane, the old fear creeping back in during takeoff, being high above the rest of the world, away from the people who remembered him. Now he wonders what he’ll have for breakfast, how much he can fit in his new suitcase alongside the gifts he still needs to open.

If he asked to stay longer, seven nights instead of six, would Bill let him? Mike should feel embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed, but the thought of Bill spending not only his money but also his time on him like this, researching hotels and surrounding attractions and asking staff to address him personally, to have someone tell him happy birthday in person…

He dries off his hands and grabs his phone, pausing the music to get into his camera. He only hesitates a moment, one breath, two, before snapping a picture and sending it off. He puts on a different playlist, something that better fits his mood, and takes a long sip of his bottle. His mind feels fuzzy like his robe, the lingering steam carrying the scent of his bath to the far corners of the bathroom. He can’t remember a time when he felt this _good._

His phone pings with a notification, echoing in the relative quiet of the bathroom. Mike lazily turns his head and spots Bill’s name before his screen dims. Butterflies dance around in his stomach, excited and nervous and far too warm to let the familiar chill of doubt color his night. He sinks further into the bath, inhaling deeply, letting himself float in the limbo between elation and rejection.

**Mike:** I feel bad for everyone who doesn’t have a Bill Denbrough in their life. Truly they are going without 

The picture is simple; wine, strawberries, bath water, anklet.

Bill’s response is simpler.

**Bill:** Next time I’ll get you candles 

_Next time,_ Mike thinks, closing his eyes again, _you’re coming with me._

*******

Sometimes on very hot and humid days, or very cold and rainy days, or some average ordinary day in between, Mike really misses the farm. In his mind it holds most of his happy memories, the good things about Derry that his months of travel have yet to yield to him. The greenery, the simplicity, the routine and delightful unpredictability of pregnant farm animals. The barn parties and sleepovers, sneaking off the property after dark to wander the streets, to listen to music in the clubhouse, because while the dark held hidden dangerous and monstrous shadows, it also carried their laughter and pushed them closer together, hands clutching as they walked, ran. It was easier to love each other when no one was looking.

Wanderlust will only get you so far, and Mike hits his wall almost a year after the Final final battle. He misses dumping things on the floor and finding them there weeks later. He misses having nonverbal conversations with John and Larry at the diner, his orders memorized and conveyed through grunts or heavy sighs. The days of doing absolutely nothing, not because the burden of carrying the torch pinned him down, but because he had no particular errands to run and didn’t feel like looking presentable just to get a stale bagel. Derry had been his home, despite it all, and when home was seven people scattered across the country your sickness never really went away.

So when Richie asks him to house sit he jumps at the opportunity to put down roots, even if they’re temporary. 

Richie never sold his house. At the time he had no reason to think he should, since he only planned to be in New York for a few weeks, a month or so at the latest. His extended stay, while great for his relationship, was doing a number on his property value, he said. Mike knew that rich people often got away with murder— what a poor choice of words considering that Richie did in fact get away with— but an unkempt lawn was cause for eviction. 

“My guy Tony quit on me last month,” Richie told him over the phone, sounding like his best friend of nineteen years declined a wedding invitation. “And I can’t exactly whisk Eds away to the city of angels if my palace is covered in dust and weeds.”

“Your palace,” Mike had echoed, eating fancy cheese in Beverly’s kitchen. After the royal treatment of a birthday he had flown back to Nebraska to get his truck. Bev had called him first about the news of her divorce finally being over, and it was kind of a given that Ben would be joining him on this trip up north. Watching the two of them try not to jump each other at every opportunity was worth the earplug investment. 

Summer was beginning its slow transition into fall, and changes were happening within the Losers Club. Patty was pregnant; Stan had been crying when he called, sending Mike into a brief panic before he finally understood him. Richie was working on a new comedy special, because his agent miraculously took him back after his utter gas station toilet of an ending during his tour. His words not Mike’s. Bev was starting a much smaller fashion line, wanting something more intimate and close knit. Tom could have the company, she said, resigned but determined, but he wouldn’t hold her back any longer. Eddie was about to move cross country, trading places with Richie as the guy who moved his entire life for a boy. They were catching up to the rest of the world after living half underwater for twenty-seven years, and Mike couldn’t have been happier… is what he thought. 

It turns out the happiest he can be is when Bill picks him up from the airport wearing big sunglasses and a neon green tank top, holding a sign that reads _Mikey Hanson_ , outlined with what has to be a hot pink highlighter. 

“It’s about time!” Bill hugs him hard, harder than Mike expects him to. It reminds him of himself from months ago, back at the Jade. He pulls back, bringing Mike down to rub their foreheads together. “It’s my turn to have you all to myself.” The hand on the back of Mike’s neck feels like a miniature sun, the way Bill’s eyes stare into his is like watching a clear sky on the longest day of the year. 

Mike almost kisses him then. Really he does. Bill certainly lingers long enough to give him a chance. But in the end he squeezes his biceps—

“Have you been working out?”

“I’ve been trying, yeah. Can you tell?”

—and loads his bags into the back of Bill’s car. They grab lunch on the way, Bill rattling off Mike’s McDonald’s order without asking, as if that kind of information just lives in his head. Whenever Bill lets his hand rest on the center console Mike’s heart jumps, his leg tensing up, hoping and dreading that Bill touches his knee. 

Bill let’s him into Richie’s house using the spare key, and shows him around like an overly caffeinated museum tour guide. “Right through this doorway is the pantry, where you can find stale cheese puffs that the owner swears are still good if you soak them in your mouth long enough. Over here is the master bedroom, where you can find a tissue box in every drawer. Legend says there’s a sock hidden under the bed that’s stiff enough to chisel iron.”

Mike laughs, nudging him aside. “Are you coming for my comedy act, Denbrough? Best selling author not enough for you?”

“I’m greedy, Mikey, I think we both know that.”

By the end of the first day Mike can count a total of fifteen times that he almost kissed Bill, including but not limited to; when he tripped over the coffee table, when he brought Mike a glass of water and touched it against his neck, when he giggled at Mike’s impression of Eddie, and when he hugged him goodbye. 

“Let me know about the library, alright?” Bill lingered in his arms, ear pressed to his chest. He had tried to pick Mike up and almost threw out his back. Which meant Mike had to return the favor. Which meant he almost kissed Bill while holding him up against the front door. “I can set up an interview in no time, they love me over there.”

Since Mike would be in town for a long stretch of time it made sense that he gave employment another shot. Richie was paying him to make his home presentable but once he and Eddie moved in he would need a new gig, probably a place of his own. When he mentioned this to Bill as they wrote out a grocery list his cheeks had turned a deep pink. He was already one step ahead of him, using his status and charm to prop open a few doors. 

Mike should be annoyed, truly. He was a grown man with years of experience, he didn’t need anyone holding his hand or setting up playdates, no matter how pure their intentions were. Instead he felt hopeful, because it meant Bill had been thinking about him. An in person job meant sticking around town, and if Bill was putting his name out there for him, he must really want Mike to stay longer than a month or two. 

“One of these days you’re gonna get tired of trying to take care of me.” He presses his nose to Bill’s temple, inhaling the scent of his skin and shampoo. He gives his shoulders a squeeze before letting go, stepping back so he doesn’t do something he can’t run away from. 

Bill is looking at him with an odd expression, one Mike can’t read before it’s replaced by a soft smile. “I don’t think that’s possible. I’d get you a new car today if you wanted one.”

“Why are you suddenly Edward Cullen from Twilight?”

“I hate everything you just said. Every single syllable was horrendous.”

“I’m just saying! He bought Bella a new car when they got engaged, he flew her to Arizona to see her mother. He had the means to buy her a house if the family wasn’t so codependent and had to live together in the woods.”

“Do you want me to help you build a house? That sounds like something you should talk to Ben about.”

“I’m not saying you would build it, I’m saying you would pay for it. Wait. No, I’m saying Edward would’ve gotten Bella a house, or paid for her to stay in a nice apartment or something. Maybe in Seattle where it rains the most.”

Bill shakes his head slowly, reaching behind him for the doorknob. “I don’t.. are you Bella in this scenario? I feel like I just had another root infused tea.”

“Twilight is not the same as me drugging you!”

“That’s what it feels like!” 

Bill stays for another hour, and if Mike had any true courage at all he would’ve kissed him on his way out.

*******

Mike catches on very quickly to the fact that he’s been set up.

Fine. Okay. It takes him two weeks. 

In his defense his every waking moment has been filled with _Bill Bill Bill_ and he hasn’t let himself think about much else. The mornings are spent making breakfast and cleaning the dishes and cabinets. They take turns with Mike’s Spotify account and cycle between podcasts and comedy specials, laughing when they find Richie’s old album. Mike likes the way Bill looks when he’s breathless, red in the face and wanting to laugh even harder just to feel it, just to let it out. 

Sometimes Bill has meetings, but when his schedule is clear he takes Mike to one of the many, many restaurants in the city for lunch. One rainy day had seen to them making sandwiches and watching a documentary about the ocean, with Mike making up stories about sea creatures or adding on to the commentary with actual facts his brain held onto. Bill is quiet for long stretches of time, just listening, stealing chips from Mike’s plate despite having plenty on his own. 

The nights are the biggest toss-up, since they were completely determined by how the first half of the day went. Sometimes Mike will make dinner for himself and doze off on the couch, woken up by his alarm labeled Get In A Bed. Sometimes Bill will come round and they order delivery and watch a movie or play cards until the sun disappears and Mike makes himself speak up about the time. 

The first night Mike spends at Bill’s house, after finally voicing the fact that he still to this day has never visited, he couldn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. The knowledge of being in Bill’s space, just a few rooms away from him, made him too hyper. Seeing a sleep rumpled Bill early in the morning, reading glasses on, hair fluffy and wild, was the equivalent to three shots of espresso. 

It takes Mike two weeks to figure out he’s been set up, but once he does he feels incredibly foolish. Bill has a spare key, has used it on more than one occasion. This is not news. Bill has been to Richie’s house prior to his leaving for New York. This is also not news. What hits Mike one unsuspecting morning, in the shower of all places, is how familiar Bill is with the house. He knows the shape of the fridge and where the cleaning supplies are and how to open the vents when Mike complains about the air conditioning not reaching far enough. He took Mike grocery shopping because he knew the fridge was empty. Not that the food had spoiled and needed to be tossed, but that the usual food spaces were bare and needed to be replenished.

Mike calls Richie while he whips up a stack of banana pancakes, keeping track of the time. Bill usually arrives when the bacon is just finishing up and he wants to be vigilant so that he can slap at his sneaky fingers.

“Richard Kaspbrak speaking.”

Mike refuses to ask if they got engaged, he doesn’t have the time. “How long has Bill been house sitting and why did you hire me if he’s been doing it for free?”

Richie tries to fake connection issues for forty-five seconds but Mike doesn’t let him go.

“Your lawn looks perfect. A man waved at me from his riding mower on Saturday.”

“So Tony didn’t abandon me after all!”

A familiar car horn outside announces Bill’s arrival, which Richie takes as his chance to escape. “We’ll be kicking you out sometime in September so I’d make your move sooner rather than later.”

“And what move is that supposed to be?’ Mike starts the bacon just as he hears the lock turning. He wants to kick Richie’s ass up and down the coast, if only so he doesn’t have to live with the knowledge that he is 1) not really needed here, not for the reasons he came, and 2) Bill knows this and kept quiet about it. Even worse he’s kept up the charade, helping Mike with chores that don't really need doing, and then taking him out on dates afterwards.

_Not dates they aren’t dates you have to stop calling them dates_

“Morning, Mikey!” Bill calls, sounding incredibly upbeat. “Do I smell bacon?”

“You’ll figure it out. Enjoy that sausage on my behalf, ‘kay? Later, buddy!”

Bill taps the back of his neck in greeting, grabbing a piece of bacon off the napkin beside the stove. Mike turns on autopilot a bit too slow, but he taps Bill between his eyes with his middle finger, completing the ritual. They’ve worked up a lot of those over the past few months, finding ways to touch each other in unique ways. Like a secret handshake but better, because as far as Mike knows Bill doesn’t do this kind of thing with anyone else. When Bill had said it was finally time he had Mike all to himself, his thoughts turned to smoke. Now, sitting at the kitchen island, spreading strawberries and peanut butter over his pancakes, he thinks about September and frowns. 

Until now he had existed in a bubble where time no longer had any meaning. He was basking in the glow of Bill’s attention, content to keep on keeping on if it meant he could make breakfast and go on long drives and watch movies with the man he was only a little afraid to be in love with. Richie and Eddie, he knew in theory, would be turning up eventually, and while he knew Richie was joking about kicking him out, his reason for staying in LA would disappear the second they touched down at the airport. He’s never needed a reason to stay with any of the other Losers, other than his desire to be near them, but of course Bill was different. His hesitation on coming to California wasn’t a coincidence. He knew that being so close to Bill would fuck up his orbit. Bill’s gravitational pull had always tugged at hm the strongest. He felt like the sun, and damn if Mike hadn’t missed the sun.

“I think I’ll give your library guy a call today,” Mike says as they finish up with the dishes. “See if I haven’t forgotten my way around the cookbook section.”

Bill lights up, starting in his eyes until his entire face is glowing. “Really? Yeah! Yes, cool okay. We can drop by this afternoon if you want. Do you have a resume? We should set up a resume.”

They draft up a resume in between tossing sliced strawberries into each other’s mouths. Mike assures him that he wouldn’t mind working somewhere else, that if this doesn’t work out it's not for lack of trying. Bill pouts at him, lays it on thick, complete with wide eyes and slanted eyebrows. 

Mike, to his credit, does not crawl across the table to kiss him senseless, but it's a very near thing.

*******

They decide to plant flowers the day before Richie and Eddie arrive. Mike, per Eddie’s request, had filled the kitchen with snacks and foods that better fit his dietary needs. It felt like going to read in his room rather than the living room when his uncle brought his friends over to play cards and drink beer in the kitchen. Time had flown by far too quickly, and with the clock breathing down his neck he’s faced with the terrible, wonderful reality that in less than a day he would be moving into one of Bill’s guest rooms.

“Why rent an apartment when you can just live with me?’ Bill had looked incredibly confused when Mike brought it up. Because he was only a few weeks into his new job, and he loved his friends so very much but he didn’t think he should intrude upon the _NEWLY ENGAGED COUPLE._

“I didn’t want to assume,” Mike had told him, which was mostly the truth. “You already got me a job, the least i can do is put a roof over my own head.”

Bill and his unreadable expression made another appearance, an odd smile twisting his lips. In the end he just shook his head and tapped out the word Dummy on his forehead in Morse code. They were learning Morse code together. “Dinner at mine tonight, you can pick a room.”

So they ate baked chicken and more fruit salad and Mike put his things in the guest room above Bill’s office on the first floor. He would rise with the sun shining through his window, but more importantly he would hear when Bill passed by to descend the stairs, might hear him typing or muttering to himself if he forgot to be quiet. 

The flowers were Bill’s idea. They had an entire day to spend together before they lost their status as the only Losers on the west coast, and ever since Mike opened up about his fond memories of the farm he’s been trying to incorporate more nature themed outings into their itinerary. It was thoughtful, so fucking thoughtful. Bill got starry eyed about every seedling and cute pot, thinking out loud about painting a few, maybe making a day out of it, should they do this for Eddie’s birthday? 

Mike has taken to wearing shorts and cuffed pants, because he hasn’t taken his anklet off since he put it on for the first time. There are times when Mike is sure the metal is being damaged or that it’s broken and fallen off, but every time he looks it seems perfectly intact. And every time Bill notices he stumbles, physically or over his words. Mike likes showing it off, propping his feet up on tables and walking around barefoot whenever he can get away with no shoes. He feels grounded with it on, anchored to the present. He teased Bill about secretly writing romance novels under a pseudonym and watched with deep satisfaction as Bill turned red in stages. 

“Do you remember when i used to help you with your chores?” Bill asks as they finish with the first row of red and yellow mums, alternating the colors. He has dirt on his cheek and sweat on his brow and Mike should tell him to reapply his sunscreen. 

“Of course I do. You were terrible at shoveling shit.” Because Bill would rather pet the sheep and try to pick up the chicks and put them in his pockets than do any actual work. He was more of a distraction than anything and the chores tended to take twice as long whenever he showed up unannounced, not that Mike ever minded. 

Bill lazily flips him off, chugging from the giant water bottle Mike bought at the last minute. They were going to make lemonade after this, freshly squeezed with the lemons still in the pitcher. Bill likes strawberries, so maybe they can add a few of those in, too. Mike plans on making burgers when Richie and Eddie arrive, make a picnic out of the whole damn thing. 

“That’s the first thing I thought of, when I saw you at the Jade.” They’re sitting side by side, knees touching. Bill produces a pen from his pocket and holds out his hand. Quiet, contemplative, Mike gives his hand over. Bill rests his arm on his leg and taps out Nice on his forearm, stalling.

“I saw you and thought about how tall you had gotten. All of you got taller than me and it pisses me off, just so you know.” He shoots a playful glare from under the brim of his sun hat, then goes to work. The pen digs into the skin on the back of Mike’s hand, a long forgotten sensation. Bill used to draw on him all the time, much to his uncle’s dismay. Mike remembers buying him pens in different colors and reverently tracing the art Bill let him walk around town with.

Mike closes his eyes and makes himself sit still, not wanting to ruin any deliberate lines. “You weren’t all that tall back then, anyhow. Big personality, small boy.”

“Shut up.”

“It was cute.”

“Be quiet, or I’m planting you with the rest of the flowers.” Bill huffs when Mike only laughs at him. “I’m trying to paint a picture for you. You are ruining my creative process.” He pokes him in the cheek a few times to get his point across. 

Bill is silent for a while, getting into his drawing. Mike thinks he’s made a circle in the center of his hand but he tries not to guess too early. He always liked being surprised by whatever Bill gave him, feeling special because Bill always sat close to him when he wanted to use his arms as a sketchbook. Mike felt smug for no good reason, and he went out of his way to show the others the birds and buildings and shapes that climbed up to his shoulders. 

“There was that really cold day in March, right after Richie’s birthday. I found you in the barn, and you were freaking out about a massive flower that had sprouted behind the hay.” He sounds utterly fond as he recounts that day, one that’s fuzzy around the edges in Mike’s mind. He had been in a bad mood that day, stomping around and operating at fifty percent because that was better than whatever he didn’t want to admit to. Bill, always in tune with how he felt, was a bit more subdued than usual. He put in the effort to help Mike get the work done, talking about nothing of consequence, lighthearted attempts to get Mike to smile or laugh.

The mysterious sunflower had died within the month, much to Bill’s dismay. Mike doesn’t remember exactly what happened afterwards, but he remembers the first time he realized that good magic existed alongside the bad. IT was still in his nightmares years later, and he was filled with dread at odd hours for no reason that he could discern in the moment, but that flower had been his proof that he hadn’t imagined everything else. That sunflower died faster than anyone could save it, but on the day Bill looked upon it with his kind, sad eyes, touched its petals with his gentle fingers, Mike swore that it turned to face him.

Bill and his gravitational pull, his eyes like the sky and his smile like the sun. The heat he radiated so strongly that other life forms sought it out when he got close enough.

“When I saw you again, I thought of that flower. And then everything else.” 

Mike sees the flower on the back of his hand before he ever opens his eyes. The stem extends down almost to his elbow, one petal climbing up his middle finger, another curving with his thumb. Mike holds his hand up to the sun and watches the still wet ink glisten. He’s already mourning the way it will fade, the way every shower will take more and more of it away, until the flower has wilted and turned to mulch.

“I want you to give me a tattoo.”

“Huh?!”

Mike turns toward the sun, to the sky, to Bill. “I want you to buy a tattoo gun and I want you to practice with it and then I want you to give me a tattoo.” He grabs Bill by the shoulders, shakes him lightly, feeling feverish and a little frantic. “Or get really good at stick and poke and I’ll sit for hours, whatever you wanna do. I just..” He shakes his head, trying to catch his breath.

“I want something permanent from you.”

Bill doesn’t look at him any differently. Mike thought he would after a display like that, but his eyes are as open and welcoming as they’ve always been. He grabs Mike’s hands from his shoulders and squeezes, holding them firmly in his lap. And then he smiles, a slow, full smile that blooms under Mike’s ever-worried gaze. He smiles the way he does when he’s excited about a breakthrough in his work, when he gets the answer right to a trivia question, when Mike approves of his dinner choices. Bill smiles and he’s happy and he’s never been more beautiful, in his sun hat with dirt on his face and Mike’s hands cradled in his own.

“Okay.”

In an ideal world this is when they kiss. The moment couldn’t be more perfect. They’re surrounded by flowers and the smell of fresh soil and the skies are clear and it's their last day to be alone together and Bill knows he wants something permanent and maybe, just maybe, he can read between the lines. Maybe he knows Mike wants more than the tattoo, maybe he wants that too. In an ideal world, they would kiss and it would be perfect and then they would get on with the rest of their lives, but now they get to do things like kiss at the breakfast table. 

In an ideal world the sprinkler system doesn't hit Mike directly in his eye. It doesn’t hit Bill square in the mouth either, nor does it shoot up Mike’s nose. They scramble to their feet, shouting despite the damage already being done, even if it’s minimal. Mike is too shocked at the way the universe is still going out of its way to fuck with him personally to grab the flowers still in their pots, or suggest they get off the lawn for the next three minutes. Bill has taken off his hat in wonder, a quiet laugh shaking his shoulders.

Bill was afraid of water. Oceans, rivers, the big stuff. He didn’t want to go sailing or fishing, and hated the idea of cruises on principle. The guilt had eased but not the fear that stuck to him like old gum. Thunderstorms were hit or miss, and Mike made sure to check the weather when they were apart, leaving his ringer on high in case Bill wanted to call him, which he often did. 

But he’s not scared now, holding his hand out in the spray. He lets it soak through his clothes, dampen his hair, wash him clean. He looks at Mike with a boyish grin, the one Mike remembers from the end of that summer, when they were free and together and maybe not safe at home but safe with each other. It was the grin that made him finish his chores faster, the grin that had him jumping off cliffs without a second thought. 

When Bill Denbrough grinned at you it meant you were someone special.

Bill does a little spin and holds out his hand with a slight bow. Mike throws his head back and laughs, laughs as they slip and slide on the wet grass, half forgotten dance moves twisting them around each other. When Mike closes his eyes he can see the farm, the barn, cloudy gray skies and tall, tall grass. He can see Bill and his red hair, his feet in Mike’s spare rain boots, shouting to the sky as they spun around in circles, falling in the mud together because they refused to let each other go. He opens his eyes now, because he’s allowed to enjoy the present, and he wants to remember what this version of Bill looks like, down the line. He wants to have as much of him as Bill will let him have.

A few cars pass by during their little recital. Mike wonders what they think of them, if they think of them at all. Do they see two men running through the sprinklers, grownups who ought to know better? Do they see two people in love, caught in their own little bubble of a romcom moment? Or do they see them the way Mike sees them? 

Just two boys dancing in the rain.

*******

October comes in with a bang. Specially the clatter of Bill dropping a box down the stairs and shouting so loud Mike springs out of bed half asleep, brandishing the big walking stick he picked up from their hike a week prior. His caveman brain doesn’t register much besides Bill, which is all he really needs. He gets them to a corner and positions himself in front, scanning the living room with frantic eyes, his makeshift sword held across his body like a kendo stick.

“Easy, tiger,” Bill laughs. He rubs the tension out of Mike’s shoulders, standing up on his toes to press his nose against the back of his neck. “How do I turn off your sleeper agent?”

Mike grunts, suppressing the shiver that races down his spine and ignoring the goosebumps that cover his arms and legs. He’s holding a stick and stomping around in his boxers like Tarzan. He should grow out his hair and learn how to do parkour with Bill flung over his shoulder, get really committed to this narrative he’s weaving. 

“C’mere. Hey.” Bill turns him around and pulls him down to tap their foreheads together. “Good morning. I’m sorry I scared you.” 

Mike melts. There’s no better way to describe how he folds over Bill like wet cardboard, his spine turning to taffy while Bill pets the back of his neck. He hooks his chin over his shoulder, valiantly keeping his hands to himself. Mike after coffee and his morning workout could be trusted. Caveman Mike could not. 

“What’re you even doin?”

“Decorating!” Bill says cheerfully. “For Halloween.” 

“It is the first of October.”

“The first day of Halloween, correct.”

Mike shakes with silent laughter, pulling himself up to stand on his own two feet. Bill still has sleep in the corners of his eyes, he’s still wearing the sweatpants and faded t-shirt he went to bed in last night, but his cheeks are flushed with alertness. 

“Give me ten minutes to get dressed and I’ll help pin some bats to the wall.” He steps over a few fake spiders and a bag of cobwebs and ascends the stairs. He thinks he hears Bill mutter something after him, but when he looks back Bill is laying out smaller decorations on the coffee table. He glances up, waves, then gets back to work.

So that’s how they spend the day, slowly transforming the living space into a watered down haunted house. With Mike around Bill doesn’t need to bother with a stepladder, which he has far too much fun with. He has him hang Wyatt the Skeleton in five different places before Mike threatens to put him in the shower when Bill least suspects it. They bring down the themed throw pillows from the attic, along with the string of fairy lights that Bill bought during Christmas a few years ago because they were red. Mike makes them break for lunch, promising to check the store after work tomorrow to get one of those skull shaped cookie cutter things that you use for eggs. 

On Wednesday Mike comes home to Bill singing _Witch Doctor_ in his office, the song drifting out into the rest of the house. Mike smiles to himself, impossibly fond. Bill usually only played music when he got into a groove; he’d been in a terrible slump since August he confessed a bit ago, and it was driving him insane because he felt really good about the story if only he could find the words to prove that he knew what he was doing. Mike never doubted him, of course, but he heads into the kitchen without saying anything in case Bill is also in an easily distracted mindset. 

“I told the Rich doctor I was in love with you,” Mike mumbles to himself, unloading the groceries on the counter. “I told the Rich doctor I was in love with you. And then the Ed doctor, he told me what to do.”

He had not, in fact, mentioned this to anybody, but at this point it was obvious to everyone but Bill that Mike was painfully, loudly, in love with him. Not that he was trying to keep it a secret, not really, not in the way other people kept their love a secret. It was hard to judge what was crossing the line when Bill tended to meet him halfway. That was the kind of person Bill was, trying to meet Mike’s needs to the best of his abilities. Everyday Mike woke up and found something new to fall for, something new that took his breath away. 

That’s not to say they never disagreed, because they did. Bill was used to keeping his own odd hours, staying up late or sleeping in hard, ruining his sleep schedule and investing in black coffee. Mike liked having a routine, when he could make himself keep one, something he discovered over his months of travel. Derry had been a box, sure, but it was one he knew well. He did his shopping, opened the library, talked to patrons, conducted his research about killer clowns from outer space. He didn’t know how to take care of Bill like he knew how to take care of fussy customers or expired mustard. As attentive as Bill could be he sometimes forgot he no longer lived alone, because Mike tried to give him space. They were two independent street cats now living under one roof. They found amusement and curiosity with each other as easily as they found frustration.

One day. One stupid day in October, they fight about the color blue.

Later, Mike will learn that Georgie died on that stupid day in October, and while he knew it happened sometime, Bill never mentioned the exact date, and Mike never asked, because that’s not the kind of question you drop on someone during breakfast. 

Their playful commentary turned annoyed ranting was never about colors and who wasn’t washing dishes or who put the recycling out last. These types of arguments are never about the simple things. Mike has never raised his voice in anger, not to anyone who didn’t deserve it, because he can’t take those kinds of words back. He does not yell at Bill. Bill does not yell at him. But the silence after they go their separate ways feels like they did.

On that stupid night in October it rains hard enough to shake the house. Mike is gripped with brief but overwhelming terror as a flash of lightning lights up his entire bedroom, before the thunder cracks. He swears he can feel it in his teeth. He climbs out of bed on unsteady legs and begins pacing, trying to slow his heart rate. He wasn’t afraid of storms, but loud noises weren’t exactly his best friend. The weather in Derry during the years IT lurked under the depths was unpredictable, and Mike never got used to the way the smell of rain burned his nose, the way the summer heat felt like drowning, the winters that froze him from the inside out. 

He doesn’t know what made him open the door, on that loud and stupid night. He wasn’t hungry, didn’t crave a glass of water to settle his nerves. He had honestly decided to sleep on the floor on the side of the bed farthest from the window. He doesn’t remember hearing anything, but when he opened the door, there was Bill. His eyes were wide and red rimmed, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and his fist was raised to knock. 

Bill does not cry on that stupid night in October. Not in front of Mike, anyway. They sit side by side on the couch, underneath the protective gaze of Wyatt the Skeleton. They hold warm mugs of tea that they barely drink, and talk in soft voices while the rain drowns them out. 

“Sometimes I wake up and I don't remember what I’ve forgotten.” Bill says into Mike’s shoulder. Mike, who did cry on that stupid night, is mostly asleep with his head bent at an uncomfortable angle. “I’m afraid of forgetting, I think. I don't know if letting go means forgetting.”

Mike has never forgotten the way the others did, but he’s older now, and the little things he used to mentally cling to have eroded over time. His mother’s laugh, the way she would call for him in a sing-song voice when he scurried away after a bath. The way his father smelled in his nice cologne, his large hand holding tight to Mike’s small one as they walked across the field to tend to the sheep. Eddie’s excited voice after a new movie. Richie’s scrawny arm around his shoulders, Stan’s put upon sigh that hid a laugh. Beverly’s calloused fingers laced with his own, Ben’s joyous shout as they leap into the quarry. 

“I don’t want to let you go, Mike.”

“So don’t.” Mike doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, but he twists his body until they’re laying spread out on the couch. He nestles his head into the crook of Bill’s neck, relaxing completely when Bill winds his arms around him without hesitation. “Keep me right here.”

And he does.

*******

Audra Phillips was trying to kill him in this Olive Garden.

As it turns out Mike had become Bill’s excuse not to leave the house. They had standing breakfast plans, Bill brought him lunch, and if Richie and Eddie didn’t invite them to dinner they were still making their way through the available restaurants within an hour drive. Mike was happy to monopolize the time, but when Audra showed up in person and invited Mike to lunch, he couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough.

He’s met Audra before, of course, though that had been on a video call. When Bill and his anxious but determined eyes told the Losers he was telling Audra about Derry, about IT, Mike’s first thought was _”Oh. He’s really in love with her.”_ The fact that they got divorced soon after made Mike’s heart twist up like a pretzel. Stan had told Patty, and while she couldn’t fully comprehend all that they went through, she believed him, and they were stronger with this secret no longer driving a wedge between them. 

But Audra did believe him. Bill had told her what he could before he left for Derry, and though she was frightened by his change in demeanor she didn’t call his sanity into question. In that video call Mike could feel her love for Bill radiating outward like the rings of a planet. They had a bond, that much was easy to see. The rest was complicated, but Mike never felt it was his place to ask. Now they were having lunch together, trading stories over unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks. There was something green and delicious in front of him; Mike didn’t drink often, but when he did he liked when the cup was shaped like an upside down lamp.

“I started playing Minecraft, of all things,” Audra tells him as they finish up their salad. “I was never into computer games. My brother always shooed me out of the room when his friends came over.” She rolls her eyes, a wry smile on her lips. “He called the other day and I went on a rant about skeleton jockeys. Very gratifying.’

“Rich tried to show me a few videos about it but all I know are creepers and the sound Steve makes when he dies.” He sips his green apple pineapple something through the thin black straw, smacking his lips uncharacteristically. It’s _very_ good.

“That’s pretty much all you need.” She dips the rest of her breadstick into Mike’s soup. Mike spears one of her little tomatoes. They make pleasant conversation about work and the weather and sightseeing stories. Mike likes talking to Audra because she feels like a clean slate. He can mention a few bad dreams and only get a sympathetic frown in return. Knowing about magic and demons was one thing, but she doesn’t know his backstory any more than he knows hers. They can take things at face value and leave it at that, gliding into lighter topics without the need to dig any deeper.

Which is why he’s caught off guard when, not even five bites into the main course, she fixes him with a heavy look and says “That’s a lovely ankle bracelet, very stylish. Did Beverly pick it out?’

Immediately Mike is on edge. He stops himself from reaching down below the table and checking to see that his treasure is still secured around his leg. He’s avoided taking it off most of the time. He freaked out during his and Bill’s last hike when he noticed his ankle was bare, before remembering he took it off in the car for safekeeping. Realistically he must be wearing it down in the shower, the sunlight, but whenever he takes it off to clean, it looks just as new as it did in July. He doesn’t question this. If the magic sky turtle is somehow preserving the only piece of jewelry he would fight a man for, he wasn’t about to go testing fate.

Mike stalls by stuffing his face, humming to indicate he missed her question the first time. Lying does not cross his mind, he simply needs time alone with the truth. “Ah, no. It was a birthday gift. From Bill.” He winces internally, shoulders tight, eyes somewhere by her earring. He rattles off his gifts from the other Losers, bypassing the hotel room and the plethora of other gifts that now hang in his closet and adorn his dresser. He knows he likes to brag in private, mostly to Rich, because his reactions are the best, but Bill’s ex-wife does not seem like the target audience for his tight five about platonic sugar daddies. Especially when the platonic part was already in question.

“Oh?” Audra asks innocently, her tone mirroring Eddie’s perfectly, when he knows the secret Richie is trying to keep by omission. “You’re a summer baby, right? You and Stanley?”

“Ben, too.” Mike drops his fork on the floor and spends the next three minutes trying to flag down their waiter. The back of his neck is covered in sweat. Those meatballs are threatening to make a reappearance. “Eddie is the baby, though only Patty gets away with calling him that. Bev and Richie are on the higher end. Bill is the oldest.”

_Their leader, their jumping off point. Eddie was the compass but Mike would follow Bill backwards through Hell if he asked him to._

Audra grins around the rim of her glass. “That’s very cute. It’s nice to hear about him being the older one, even by a few weeks. I think he forgot how young he really was when we got together. It was endearing.”

“He’s always trying to take care of someone,” Mike says before he can stop himself. “Atlas would look at the invisible world on his shoulders and wince in sympathy.”

Despite his best efforts Mike talks about Bill until dessert arrives. The lighthearted memories he kept close to his heart, the books he loved and laughed at, the ones that made him cry. More recent things like how he burns pancakes religiously because he gets bursts of creativity while cooking like other people write novels in the shower. How he slept like a cat, sat in chairs like a shrimp, fought with the coffee table on a bi-weekly basis, and was thinking about putting a mini fridge in his bedroom.

“He really thinks I could be a comedian. Truly!” Mike waves his fork around for emphasis. “I _know_ if I asked, Richie would pull a muscle trying to get me a slot somewhere, but I don't think I could handle being on stage in front of five strangers, let alone thirty drunk strangers.” He laughs softly to himself. “I said the word podcast once in Bill’s vicinity and had to stop him from buying recording equipment.”

Audra has not said a single word for some time now, and when Mike realizes this he clams up. How long has he spent giving verbal heart eyes to the man she spent ten years bonded to? God, what does she think of him now? How can he assure her that despite what she thinks his feelings have nothing to do with Bill’s? 

“Sounds like you two are having fun,” she says kindly. “He talked about you nonstop when he returned from Derry. I found it hard to believe he forgot about you until that week. You should’ve seen him.” She draws herself up a bit, pulls a lock of hair from behind her ear and drapes it over her forehead. _“Mike is so smart, Audie, it’s unreal. His room could be a history museum. Do you think he’s read my books? Would it be weird if I asked?”_

She laughs, a fond sound that cuts through the mockery. Mike is too busy running in circles and shouting from rooftops. Bill talked about him. To his wife. Bill sang his praise for no good reason and, if Audra is to be believed, he’s done it more than once. He spoke of him warmly after Mike called him back to their personal purgatory. And then he got divorced. Bill was not available. And then he was. And then he spent several months doting on Mike. 

Mike looks up from his hands and tries to read Audra’s expression. She doesn’t appear bothered, finishing up her drink as she orders them a ride home. She must feel his stunned gaze boring into her because she looks up, smiling in a way that feels familiar. It reminds him of Stan, surprisingly, after he’s talked Mike into getting his own answers. The half smug, half encouraging smile that drove everyone crazy.

“How much,” Mike starts. Stops. Tries again. “What all has he said? About me?” He compulsively checks his phone, not at all surprised to see a few missed texts from Bill. 

Why isn’t he surprised? Should he be? He was used to Bill checking in on him, reaching out if he ever got too quiet. The group chat liked to joke that Mike only showed up when Bill was busy, and vice versa. Bill’s organization skills were abysmal, but there was a list on the fridge of all of Mike’s favorite and second favorite restaurants, and another of the places he had yet to try. The big purple and gold mug Mike drank out of every morning was Bill’s favorite, a gift from Ben for his birthday. He let Mike use it without a hint of protest, joking or otherwise.

“The same things you’ve said about him, I imagine.” She shrugs, careless, like she hasn’t just rearranged Mike’s entire world. “Bill was always a creature of habit. You’ve become one of them.’ She smiles again, this one much warmer. “And I think you’re a pretty good one.”

Mike is so stunned he doesn’t even fight when Audra insists on paying the check. He numbly reminds the waiter about his chocolate cake to-go. Because of course his first thought upon sitting down was _what can I bring home to Bill?_

On a theoretical level he knew he was Bill Denbrough’s biggest fan, but seeing himself from an outside perspective was embarrassing. And if Audra Phillips could read him like a pop-up book, why couldn’t Bill? Was he really too nice to sit Mike down and reject him, or was he truly oblivious? Which was worse?

“Mike? If I can ask one favor?” Audra says as the car pulls up in front of his house. Bill’s house. Their house? Suddenly everything looks different, sharper, brighter. Wyatt the Skeleton hangs from the front door like he’s welcoming him back. Somewhere on the other side of that door was the man who stole his heart by accident. 

“Of course,” Mike says once he gets his jaw working. “Anything.”

She squeezes his arm, staring at the side of his face until he looks her in the eyes. “Keep being good to each other.”

When Mike opens the door he sees Bill in the living room, curled up on the couch with his laptop resting on his knees. His hair is fluffy and towel dried, reading glasses sitting low on his nose, the remnants of a sandwich on the coffee table. He glances up as Mike enters and beams. He makes grabby hands in Mike’s direction— he recognizes the gesture from Bev and Richie— and pulls him down by the biceps when he gets close enough.

“Hey.” Bill bumps his forehead against Mike’s temple. “Did you have fun? How was Audra? Is that for me?” He grabs the styrofoam box from Mike’s hands and cracks it open without waiting for a response. 

Even if it wasn’t for him Mike wouldn’t have the heart to snatch it away. He goes to get a fork so Bill doesn’t smear chocolate on the cushions or his laptop, grabbing a bottle of water as well, because he knows how neglectful Bill can be when he’s in the zone. He sits beside him on the couch. It takes less than a minute for Bill to throw his legs over Mike’s lap.

“You’ve been really cookin with that one,” Mike says, not bothering to hide his curiosity. “Will I get to see it before your editor?” He scoops up a chunk of cake with his fingers, one hand underneath to catch any crumbs. “I’ll admit I’ve been itching to get my hands on your computer but I’m being very respectful. Even though i could probably guess your password.” 

Bill offers him the fork, loaded with a sizable piece of cake. Mike accepts even though he’s pleasantly full, swallowing it whole when Bill proceeds to _lick the fork clean_ afterwards.

“Do you want a reward for not being a snoop?” Bill laughs. He was always laughing these days, usually whenever Mike spoke. Was Mike truly that hilarious or was it something else? When Bill made jokes Mike laughed quietly, but that was because Bill’s jokes were often murmured in his ear. 

“If you have one to give me.” 

Bill digs his toes into Mike’s thigh, squinting at him from above his glasses. Mike reaches out with his clean hand to rub at the wrinkle between his brows. He’s incredibly fond of that wrinkle in particular, but he loves every fold and soft curve that comes with age. He wants to watch Bill grow older and grayer, wants the brown to fade just like the red, until silvery whips are all that remain. He wants to see Bill Denbrough at age seventy, and all the years that come before that. He wants to massage Bill’s bony hands when the arthritis settles in, wants to bundle him up in three layers of sweaters when he wants to sit out on the back porch in September. In his mind they are no longer in California, but someplace where the other seasons exist. The location doesn’t matter. He just wants Bill, for as long as he’s allowed to want him.

Bill’s reward is that Mike gets to hear him narrate the beginning of act two, complete with character voices and an utter lack of context about the conflict and motivations of the crew. Seems he was keeping with the pirate theme after all.

“This is just the rough draft,” Bill promises once he’s done. He plucks at a loose thread in the throw blanket around his shoulders, avoiding Mike’s piercing gaze. He squirms a bit, turning his attention fully to his screen. He types out another paragraph in the wake of Mike’s silence, but his fingers hover over the keyboard more than they write anything of note.

 _He’s shy_ Mike thinks, utterly devastated by how cute Bill looks with color high in his cheeks, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Mike squeezes his knee so he doesn’t upend the laptop in his haste to lick the taste of chocolate out of Bill’s mouth.

“Now I’m _very_ jealous of your editor. You can’t just say they’re about to execute a heist and not let me read the first half. Getting together is the best part!” He tries to grab the laptop, playfully of course, he knows how guarded Bill can be with his works in progress. Bill snaps the laptop closed, clipping Mike’s fingers.

“They’re grave robbers,” Bill says with a touch of defensiveness, as if he expects Mike to withdraw his praise. “It’s very convoluted and right now I’m using the plot holes I found as intentional gaps in the main character’s memory.” He makes a face as his words register. “God, I truly have no original ideas. Did I ever?’

“When art imitates life,” Mike mutters into the bottle of water. Bill kicks at him again, slumping against the am of the couch with a wide yawn. He gets comfortable, fitting himself in the crevice between the arm and the back of the couch. Mike and his workout routine know that if he falls asleep like this his back will ache for the next two weeks. 

“Time for bed, grandpa.” He stands, looming over Bill while he curls up into an oval, defiant even as he yawns again. “No no, none of that. The king of horror can’t turn into a bug creature this early in his career. Pad out the wiki a little more.”

Bill makes a face but doesn’t rise to the bait like Mike thought he would. He does sit up, but stays in a protective curve; uncertainty written in his every move. Mike starts to worry he’s said the wrong joke this time, touched on a nerve he hadn’t known was exposed. Bill opens and closes his mouth several times, starting to speak before swallowing the words down. He stands finally, tipping his head back to stare up at Mike.

“Take a nap with me.” 

He doesn’t phrase it as a question but Mike can see the hesitation in the slump of his eyebrows. Shoulders squared, jaw tight, braced for rejection. Mike can read him easily. He wants to turn the page of this, dogear his smile and his giggle and the way he reaches for Mike without thought. He wants to skip to the happily ever after, to seventy, where they’ve never been apart for more than a few days at a time. But he also wants to savor every single second, because even if his mind can’t hold onto every moment they spend together, he knows his heart will. 

Mike pulls him into his arms and rests his cheek on top of Bill’s head. And Bill melts. There’s no other way to describe the way he molds to Mike’s front like kinetic sand, arms looping around his waist and holding on tight. 

“Okay.”

*******

**Mike:** I need some advice  
 **Mike:** Serious advice

 **Richie:** Hang on let me put on my serious face  
**Richie:** 🧐  
**Richie:** Ok I’m ready 

**Mike:** Richie.

 **Richie:** I’m here! I’m all ears dude seriously 

**Mike:** How did you work up the courage to kiss Eddie for the first time?  
**Mike:** DUDE DON'T CALL ME

 **Richie:** I THINK THIS WARRANTS A PHONE CALL DUDE 

**Mike:** No no no I can’t we’re watching a movie and he just went to the bathroom I don’t have time just tell me

 **Richie:** You’re not gonna like the answer 

**Mike:** Why not?!

 **Richie:** Cause Eds kissed me first!

 **Mike:** DAMMIT!

*******

**Mike:** Beverly

 **Bev:** Michael 

**Mike:** I crave your wisdom 

**Bev:** Ask me your query 

**Mike:** How do you psych yourself up to kiss the guy you like

 **Bev:** 😬

 **Mike:** 🤨

 **Bev:** Well the guy I like is Ben. Who carried a literal token of me for 27 years

 **Mike:** oh

 **Bev:** Mhmm

 **Bev:** That’s not to say getting together was easy. Turns out we both like the idea of nice things, but the execution is hard

 **Mike:** Scary 

**Bev:** Yeah. But also. Nice  
**Bev:** It’s nice to love someone and sit with it for a while. Get comfortable with that feeling.  
**Bev:** He told me last year while Eddie was in the hospital that he didn’t know what to do with his feelings. He finally had a face for that name and a place to put his love but  
**Bev:** I certainly wasn’t ready to start anything serious. I wanted time. I wanted to not be married. I wanted to sit with his love. My love for him.  
**Bev:** Make sure it was him I wanted and not just. Not Tom you know? 

**Mike:** That’s. Yeah. Yeah I think I know what you mean  
**Mike:** I’m really happy for you two. Not everyone needs a grand gesture 

**Bev:** Or a fucking U-haul. I cannot believe Richie and Eddie got ENGAGED

 **Mike:** Stay close by the phone I’m gonna call you as soon as we finish dinner

*******

**Mike:** How do I kiss the boy I like

 **Stan:** Well first maybe don’t refer to him as a boy 

**Mike:** How do I kiss the man I like 

**Stan:** With your mouth 

**Mike:** I’m going to kill you

 **Stan:** Stronger entities than you have tried 

**Mike:** How Do I Kiss Bill Denbrough

 **Stan:** Passionately. Maybe with tongue I think he’s into that 

**Mike:** STANLEY URIS  
**Mike:** I AM ASKING YOU AS MY FRIEND  
**Mike:** TO H E L P ME 

**Stan:** Does Bill know you want to kiss him?

 **Mike:** ...what 

**Stan:** Does Bill know you want to kiss him. Because if you guys know you’ve been wearing heart eyes all year then maybe he just isn’t sure where your intimacy boundaries are. That happened with Bev and Ben for a bit but they talked it out. Now look at them!

 **Mike:** … if we both know what

 **Stan:** Do

 **Stan:** Have you not

 **Stan:** Does he not know that you love him? 

**Mike:** Of course he does!

 **Stan:** Have you told him you have romantic feelings for him?

 **Mike:** It. Hasn’t been said in so many words. No 

**Mike:** Hello??

*******

**Patty:** Hi sweetheart! How are you?

 **Mike:** 😔  
**Mike:** Did Stan have to go shout in the garden because of me?

 **Patty:** Oh honey  
**Patty:** Yes but only a little bit 

**Mike:** I’m sorry 😖  
**Mike:** I’m having a bit of a crisis  
**Mike:** It feels like the universe has given me ample opportunities but I didn’t take them. I’m afraid all the doors that were once wide open are now locked shut 

**Patty:** Mmm  
**Patty:** Well  
**Patty:** Have you tried knocking?

 **Mike:** Knocking?

 **Patty:** That’s what you do with a closed door. You knock so the person on the other side let’s you in

 **Mike:** I don’t know if this is that simple

 **Patty:** I don’t see why it can’t be!  
**Patty:** Sometimes we need to ask for the things we want. It’s polite if nothing else. And once everyone is on the same page things tend to run more smoothly 

**Mike:** Knocking on the door, asking to be let in  
**Mike:** It sounds like I’m a vampire 

**Patty:** Do you like vampires?

 **Mike:** Uhhhh

 **Patty:** Haha ok ok  
**Patty:** Does Bill like vampires?

 **Mike:** I don’t know  
**Mike:** I guess I’m about to find out

*******

The problem is that Mike has never been good at asking for the things that he wanted. He was of the mind that if he couldn’t achieve it on his own then it was better to do something else. Bill had turned that philosophy on its head though, by showering him with gifts and attention and getting him a job and letting him move into his home. Mike had wanted to dismiss it all as Big Bill being Big Bill, but when the others pointed out that they never received that kind of special treatment, it made the hope rise up in Mike’s heart.

Bill did not coddle him. If he did Mike would have shut him down ages ago. He gave him just enough, Or helped him figure out where to go next. He was different, because Mike didn’t mind when Bill dropped everything to listen to him rant about annoying patrons or gush over the fancy book covers in the children’s section. He liked it even, the way Bill was genuinely interested in everything he had to say. Bill made him feel important. Bill made him feel seen. 

Bill made him feel loved. And wasn’t that terrifying. 

Mike wrestles with the concept of knocking for days, a week, two. Halloween comes and goes; they watch a few bad movies with Richie and Eddie. Stan and Patty call during _Scream_ and send all of them into each other’s laps. Ben sends Mike one of those holiday chain texts that has him choking on his popcorn and skittles. Richie sheds a few real tears at that, proud that his gospel is spreading to his loved ones. Bill pesters Mike until he sends him the text, and ends up on the floor during Bill’s dramatic reading. Eddie records it, the only one who can hold his arm steady while the rest of his body shakes with laughter. 

There’s candy stuck in his molars; Richie pours out a can of beer for Doctor Wentworth, a sad smile pushing at his lips. Nobody calls him out when he needs a moment alone in the kitchen, or when he curls up on Eddie during _Hocus Pocus_. He hugs them hard when they leave, reminding them to floss, a half joke about how expensive dentures are these days. Bill squeezes his knee on the drive home, and Mike lingers as they get ready for bed, forcing himself to return to his own room when he nods off on the edge of Bill’s bed.

Sometime in November, before Eddie’s birthday, Mike brings a gallon of ice cream home and says without prompt: “I miss the snow. I miss winter. I’m reading _Dread_ and if getting kidnapped by a crazed fan is what it takes to feel cold again, I might start hanging out at the grocery store at night.”

Bill grabs a bowl and two spoons, and his fancy ice cream scooper that he bought because Mike has upped the ice cream consumption in the household. “I used to travel to London fairly regularly, so I’ve never really noticed. Canada too, which is beautiful.”

“Canada. Where _Dread_ is located.”

“Some version of Canada,” Bill says vaguely, talking about his fictional city with its fake stores and people. “But I know how you feel. My first few years here made me feel off balance.” He drizzles two swirls of caramel sauce in the bottom of the bowl. Mike leans against the counter and watches him get fancy with it, constructing a sundae with the single minded focus of a contestant on a baking show. Bill breaks out the whipped cream and does two little swirls on top, then tips his head back and squirts a generous helping into his mouth. His cheeks puff up like a squirrel’s, lips puckered, eyes dancing with satisfaction. 

“New York Times best seller everyone.’ Mike cuts into the just soft enough ice cream with his spoon, scooping up all the toppings. “I think you should get more creative with your back cover portraits. Become the visual representation of Lemony Snicket.” 

Bill laughs with his mouth still full and has to choke it down; he slaps Mike’s chest in the meantime. “I'll become an amazing and charming mystery writer when you seriously consider that comedy gig.”

Mike pins him with a wide eyed stare. “But you’re already a charming mystery writer! Does this mean I’ve been missing my sets? I need to check my fucking emails more.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” Bill levels his loaded spoon at him. “The world is your oyster, Mikey. You can do anything you want now, I promise.”

“Is this a bad time to mention I’m allergic to most seafood?”

He keeps it up, making Bill giggle and roll his eyes as they destroy the sweet treat in front of them. It was easy to curate a response over text, long paragraphs or short quips that he could only hope would spur Bill into lobbing the ball back over to his side of the net. He thinks about how he never wants to lose this, Bill pushing and pulling at him, leaning heavily against him when a joke is too bad for a comeback, when he falls asleep on the couch during movies. When he wanders into Mike’s room after a shower and worms his way into his bed so that Mike will read to him. 

Bill has never suggested that Mike should move out and get his own place, and whenever Mike jokes about stealing away into the night without a trace, Bill would look at him like a wounded animal, a cat whose tail you stepped on who can’t understand your apology. He gets clingy after that, coming up with long term activities made for two. 

“So where would you want to go?” Bill lost the fight to lick the bottom of the bowl so he sits on the counter beside the sink and plays with the cow shaped salt and pepper shakers Patty gave him for his birthday. 

“Hmm?”

“For the snow. I’d be down with just getting a snow cone maker and filling up the bathtub with shaved ice, but I don’t think that’s what you’re going for.”

Mike lowers the bowl from his face, blinking slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Bill glances up from his phone, head tilted just a bit. “You said you missed the snow, right? If you want we can just visit Bev for a few days. Or ask Ben if he has any hidden cabins up in Canada.” He grins, looking very proud of himself. “I can speak French.” 

Mike very pointedly does not go down that path. He rinses the bowl, wipes his mouth clean, and very calmly tries to make sense of Bill’s words. “What. Are you talking about?”

“Ohh, we could see the Northern Lights! I’ve always wanted to do that.” 

“Bill.” Mike plants his hands on the counter on either side of Bill’s hips, catching his eyes and holding them. “I can’t ask you to plan some elaborate trip just because my seasonal depression feels off.” 

Bill makes a disagreeable sound, lightly hitting his thigh with his foot. Mike shifts closer into the space that Bill makes for him, brain fuzzing out when Bill squeezes him once with his knees. “You’re not asking me. I’m offering.”

“But you would do it, if I asked.”

“But I would do it if you asked.” 

The sincerity in Bill’s eyes makes his knees weak. Mike has always found it easy to be himself with him, kissing conundrum aside. Bill takes him as he is, meeting him wherever Mike needs to be, walking beside him when he’s ready to move forward. He once thought he could live with just being Bill’s friend, being in his life as a background character was better than not being in it at all, but he was starting to think differently now. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to take a chance. He wanted to knock.

“Do you like vampires?” 

Bill, as always, takes it in stride. “I do. Much better than werewolves but I’m not sure if that’s an aesthetic thing or. You know. A Derry thing.’

Mike chuckles, letting himself be drawn into Bill’s orbit. He rests his forehead against Bill’s shoulder, needing a moment to gather his thoughts. “In this hypothetical winter cabin situation, would you want to… would you want to share a bed?’

“Yes.” Bill answers without hesitation, his hands sliding up Mike’s arms until they rest on his biceps. “I would like that very much.”

Mike knows he can leave things like this, bringing his head up to rest against Bill’s. He can back away and make a joke and live the rest of his life in a limbo state until Bill gets tired of him and kicks him out. The universe will push Bill into the arms of someone who doesn’t beat around the bush, and Mike will end up right where he started a year ago, twenty–seven years ago. He can tell the other Losers to stop with the jokes and insinuations, tell them that it's never going to happen and it's all his fault and he would very much appreciate it if no one ever brought it up again. Mike can keep silent once again and let this opportunity slip from his fingers like hot sand.

Or he can knock. 

“Can I kiss you?” The words fall like heavy stones, each one splashing in the lake of Bill’s eyes. Mike wonders if he could drown in them, or if Bill would simply allow him to float forever. He would keep the waves slow and mild, the waters warm and inviting. He would bend the fabric of his universe to keep Mike safe, to keep him close.

“Yeah,” Bill breathes, gently bumping their noses together. “Yeah Mikey, you can kiss me.”

Relieve floods his body and spills over into a shuddering exhale. He slumps forward, shaking arms holding him up. Bill wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in like the tide. 

“Thank you,” Mike whispers, before he gets pulled under.

They say you should never meet your heroes. They tell you not to count your chickens, not to hold your breath, don’t quit your day job. A million little sayings that all mean the same thing, a hundred different ways to dim the light of hope you dare to carry. Mike has lived in darkness for so long. Mike has lived alone for _so long_. Derry was his cage, his burden, his island, his home. Leaving felt like just as much of a curse, because after years of his roots burrowing deep under the town he now had to dig them up, rip open old wounds that he never knew hadn’t healed. He was a lighthouse with no one to look after it, his light had dimmed so much the inverse had occurred, and he was recognized by the way he swallowed light like a monster. He was grounded no matter where he was, no matter how fast he drived or how long he stayed away. His lofty goals were so far out of reach, the impossibility of space looming mockingly above him.

But Mike didn’t have to shoot for the stars, because Bill has already brought them down to him.

They break away with a soft smacking sound. One that Mike commits to memory without any conscious effort. Bill sighs sweetly, eyes still closed, holding Mike close. With trembling arms Mike gets himself in a better position, wrapping one arm around Bill’s back as the other hand cradles the back of his head.

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Bill asks, sounding just as dazed as Mike feels. 

“I think my brain shut off.”

Bill laughs, sweet and airy like the lingering taste of whipped cream that Mike wants to lick from behind his teeth. He opens his eyes at half mast; there’s a flush to his cheeks that sends Mike’s blood racing to several different places. He hooks his foot around the back of Mike’s knee and pulls him even closer. “What does that mean?”

Mike shakes his head and kisses him again, and it’s just as good as the first. Bill’s lips are soft and warm and they yield to his, letting Mike set the pace. The frantic energy he felt at the Jade is gone, as is the desperate longing ache that he carried on his birthday. What he feels most right now— he tugs oh so gently on Bill’s bottom lip with his teeth— is safe. Bill leaves no roo for doubt, no space for the darkness. 

Mike crushes Bill to his chest and Bill responds in kind, holding him hostage with his legs. They sway together with Bill as their anchor. Mike wants to lock them away in a tower where they’ll never be bothered or separated, where nobody can hurt them or make them feel insignificant. But he also wants to go out into the world with Bill’s hand firmly in his own, daring anyone to test them. He’s always felt stronger with Bill around, he never wants that feeling to fade.

This time they only separate because they need to breathe, and even then Mike doesn’t go too far. They hold each other as they pant in the space between them, the quiet of the kitchen interrupted only by distant car horns and the humming of the fridge. Bill looks at him like Mike is everything he’s ever wanted, which, Mike realizes with a start, is the way he’s been looking at him for months.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Bill confesses as if reading his mind. Mike wouldn’t be surprised if he could. “I almost tried a few times, but I didn’t know if I was reading into the moment.”

Mike licks his lips, elated when Bill mirrors him. “I think we were on the same page the entire time, but neither of us wanted to read out loud.”

Bill wrinkles his nose. “Never did like that in school. But I like when you read to me.” He detangles them, only to cradle Mike’s face in his hands, thumbs rubbing his jaw. “You’re my best friend, Mikey. I didn’t want to be too much, in case this… in case I wasn’t what you wanted. I kind of only have two settings, which are both ends of an extreme.”

Mike would argue that Bill’s only two settings were Extreme and Asleep, but he holds his tongue. He doesn’t want to interrupt, especially now that his punishment for teasing could be that Bill never holds his tongue again.

“I spent this last year, what I thought could be our _last_ year, getting to know you again. I missed out on so much, and if I had the chance I would go back and I would stay, fill in all those gaps so no part of you was missing from me.” He wipes away the tears that slide down Mike’s cheeks, his own welling up without falling over. Big Bill still trying to take care of him. “I’d give you all the years you deserve. I’d eat that fucking turtle and harness the powers of the universe and I’d give you everything.”

“I know you would.” Mike leans heavily into his touch and feels Bill’s grip grow firm. How many times has he dreamed about Bill riding back into town to stay by his side or to whisk him away? How many book tours did he almost go to, willing to risk it all just to see the man in person? He knew, even back then, that if he asked Bill to return early, to come to him, he would have. That certainty kept him sane on the bad days, the awful nights. He read Bill’s books and found the Losers, found himself between the pages. Marcus and Mitchell and Harrison and Hathaway, his traits and features and the way he spoke, little signs that told him he was not forgotten completely. 

Bill kisses him again, chaste and soft, sucking gently on his bottom lip because Mike squeezes his hips when he does. 

Bill kisses him and Mike is ruined for anyone else. 

Bill kisses him and the world around him grows still.

Bill kisses him and Mike feels perfect.

“I love you.” Mike has said it before, countless times, but it feels different now, because now he means it in multiple ways. It feels new, like the kissing, but familiar like everything else. And wasn’t that just the way Bill made him feel all the time? New and familiar, exciting and safe, a trip to your favorite vacation spot after many years away. 

“I love you,” Bill echoes, in the same new and familiar way. Then he shakes his head, bringing Mike down for another tender kiss. “I’m in love with you. I hope that’s okay.” 

Mike almost kissed Bill at the Jade of Orient. 

He’s really glad he didn’t.

*******

They hang mistletoe in every doorway of the house.

Stan calls it overkill. Bill says he hopes his kid is born on April first and that he’s burdened by Richie and his dumb jokes for the next twelve years. Wyatt the Skeleton gets a fun hat and a place on the bookshelf overlooking the small, fake tree Mike bought home from the store. Bill put him in charge of the holiday playlist, and if Mike reading puts him in a trance, then pulling him into a dance while crooning _This Christmas_ in his ear should be considered an attack. 

Bill buys fake snow and sprinkles it about the living room, and then buys a little vacuum the following day. Mike brings home ornaments that the children at the library make him during the craft hour after lunch, and Bill puts their names on the list of the fridge, along with parent phone numbers and any gift they might have told Mike they wrote to Santa about. Bill drafts up a short story about a scary snowman and the cool kids who help him learn to be nice, and after many, many revisions, he gets the green light to read it, with the help of Richie and his Voices. He’s started volunteering at the library, and the kids loved him almost as much as they loved Mr. Mike.

They duet _Baby, It’s Cold Outside_ while baking cookies, almost burning a batch when they get a little distracted. Something about delicious lips and warming each other up from the fictional chill. They fight about Bill missing a deadline and have a fake snowball fight, resulting in a long conversation on the kitchen floor, dunking the burnt cookies in warm milk. They no longer go to bed with words unsaid, even if the words that _are_ said are hard pills to swallow. Bill trusts Mike to tell it like it is, just like Mike trusts Bill not to turn his insecurities and self-doubt outwards onto him. They prop each other up, even when the easier thing would be to walk away.

“Richie and Eddie just touched down in Atlanta,” Mike says one morning while they’re still in bed, sitting up against the headboard. The guest room that was previously his bedroom has been bare for weeks now, like he was never there at all. Bill’s room, their room, is filled with his old and new clothes, with a bedside table filled with the little things he means to throw away or sort or put away properly. It feels lived in, co-inhabited. He picked out a new set of bedsheets, a warm maroon that looks good against Bill’s bare skin.

Bill hums his acknowledgment, nestling deeper under the covers. He shifts closer, eyes closed, until his nose touches Mike’s hip. Mike drops a hand to his head and threads his fingers through his hair, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. They don’t spend many mornings like this, since Mike is often getting ready for work and Bill is either in a meeting or on his new writing schedule, but they savor the lazy days when they can.

Mike lets his mind wander, thinking about the to-do list he stuck to the front door, the grocery list in the pantry, the toiletry checklist on the bathroom mirror. All the little things he used to do for himself back when living was a daily struggle. Little things that Bill thanks him for, because it makes him feel cared for. Mike used to joke that if he had money to blow he would treat Bill like a king, but Bill only rolled his eyes and kissed him quiet.

“You take care of me in the ways I don’t take care of myself. You fill in my gaps.”

Mike had no response to that, so he kissed him instead. He was allowed to do that now.

He continues narrating the group chat as Bill shimmies further under the covers and down the bed, sticking close, feeling his way in the darkness. When he gets to Mike’s calf he drops a kiss to warm skin, following the path of the muscle until he reaches his ankle. Now that they were In Love and did things like watch the vegetables shower at the grocery store while holding hands, Bill was allowed to be Weird about his gift. Not weird in a bad way, maybe not weird at all if Mike was being honest. After all he had been doing his best to show it off ever since he got it, and he’s caught Bill looking more than can count. He’s offered to get him a matching bracelet, but when Mike joked about that one saying _Denbrough_ , Bill had to take a walk around the block. 

“I’m starting to think you have an obsession,” Mike says when Bill reaches his target. First he traces the name; feeling the grooves under his finger was his favorite part. Then he kisses it, which is the weird—not weird—obsessive part Mike was talking about. He nudges Bill’s shoulder with his other foot, twisting away with a laugh when Bill starts to suck on his ankle bone. 

“Dude!”

“I’m showing my respect.” Bill says seriously. He peppers kisses up and down Mike’s leg despite his laughing protests, but returns to his ankle when Mike lets him. He lingers, biting lightly, harder when Mike says he can. The lingering sting intensifies when Mike flexes his foot, a dull pain that makes him feel weird—not weird—obsessive too. Bill was nervous the first time he asked, and Mike was a little too drunk off euphoria to really question why teeth digging into his shoulder opened up a small galaxy behind his eyes. Maybe Bill just liked biting him, and maybe Mike just liked being bitten. Maybe they could be a little weird about each other.

“Get back up here so I can kiss you,” Mike demands, hands petting Bill’s head under the covers. He shimmies back up, messy hair emerging first, playful eyes second.

“Why don't you come down here and get me?”

Mike has never shied away from a challenge. He goes after Bill faster than he anticipated, throwing a leg over his hip to keep him from cheating and getting out of bed. They wrestle, trading positions like men ten years younger than them, using cheap tricks like old ticklish spots and a well place kiss that ends in a lick. Finally, _finally_ , Mike gains the upper hand. He manages to flip Bill onto his back and settles on top of him. His chest heaves under Mike’s weight but he doesn’t tell him to move, not even when Mike spreads out like a starfish.

“What do you want for Christmas?” Mike asks once they’ve caught their breath. 

“I already know my gifts are hidden under the cabinet in the guest bathroom.”

Mike lifts himself up long enough to nip at his jaw, because maybe he likes doing the biting, too. “Snoop.”

“You’re just bad at being sneaky.” Bill rubs his back with both hands in soothing circles, and for awhile it's just them in their bed, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but love each other. “If I say something like, I already have what I want, or all I want is you, I’ll be cheesy.”

“You were already cheesy. I had no influence in that regard.” Bill was sentimental, the kind of person who would rather take a trinket home than a picture. The wall in his office is covered in postcards and keychains that Mike sent, with space for more. The physical reminders helped, he said, and Mike knows about the little yellow raincoat hidden up in the attic with the other reminders Bill can’t face but refuses to forget. 

“I can be your present this year,” Mike yawns into the hollow of his throat. “Save your gifts until your birthday. Get you back for how you did me.”

“Yeah?” Bill runs a finger feather light down the back of his neck, voice dropping just a little. “Gonna let me unwrap you under the tree?”

“That depends. Have you been naughty or nice?”

They doze for another hour or so, talking in hushed voices, sharing lazy kisses, hovering on the edges of moving things farther but also content to stay where they are. They need to get up soon, eat and check the mail and wash those dishes they let soak in the sink because neither of them felt like doing them before heading up to bed. 

“My New Year’s resolution is to kiss you more,” Mike announces when he feels they can no longer be one with the mattress. He rolls off of Bill, still tangled in the sheets, and stands. He turns back to the bed and finds Bill grinning that reckless, boyish grin, the one that makes Mike feel like he’s the most important person on the planet. 

“That’s funny,” He says, slowly rising to meet him. “My resolution is to get more kisses.”

“How lucky for you.”

“How indeed.”

They shower, and Mike kisses the top of Bill’s head after washing his hair. They brush their teeth, and Mike kisses Bill’s cheek after wiping away a streak of toothpaste. They move about the kitchen together, coffee and omelette and bacon; Mike snatches up sneaky fingers and kisses the tip of each one, grease and all. 

Later on they will go shopping, start cleaning the bookshelf before getting distracted by one thing or another. Bill will slip into his office while Mike watches a movie, or Bill will sketch on the couch as Mike reads one of his books out loud just to watch him turn red. The clock will keep ticking as the world continues to spin on its axis. The fog of Derry will come and go, bringing about nightmares or hours of calling back to memories they help each other remember. Bill will continue filling in his gaps, taking care of him in the ways he knows how, as Mike does the same for him.

Mike will continue looking for excuses to kiss Bill, though he knows he doesn’t need them anymore. All he has to do is ask.

**Author's Note:**

> What Mike doesn’t know is that the B side of this track is Bill frantically texting the Bi Crisis Hotline aka the other Losers this entire time.


End file.
